1 


FROM 


HL 


NINA 
RHOADES 


THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 


BOOKS   BY  NINA  RHOADES 


MARION'S  VACATION.  Illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth.  $1.25 
DOROTHY  BROWN.  Illustrated.  12mo.  Cloth.  $1.50 
VICTORINE'S  BOOK.    Illustrated.     12mo.    Cloth.    $1.25 


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ONLY  DOLLIE 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  NEXT  DOOR 

WINIFRED'S  NEIGHBORS 

THE  CHILDREN  ON  THE  TOP  FLOOR 

HOW  BAR3ARA  KEPT  HER  PROMISE 

LITTLE  MISS  ROSAMOND 

PRISCILLA  OF  THE  DOLL  SHOP 

BRAVE  LITTLE  PEGGY 

THE  OTHER  SYLVIA 

MAISIE'S  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

LITTLE  QUEEN  ESTHER 


LOTHROP,    LEE   &   SHEPARD   CO. 
BOSTON 


"Aren't  You  Going  to  be  Friends  with  Me?" — Page  225. 


THE    GIRL    FROM 
ARIZONA 


BY 


NINA   RHOADES 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  "  BRICK  HOUSE  BOOKS,"    "  MARION'S  VACATION, 
"DOROTHY   BROWN,"     ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY,  ETJZABETH  WITHINGTON 


BOSTON 
LOTHROP,    LEE   &   SHEPARD   CO. 


Published,  August,  1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
Lothrop,  Ler  &  Shepard  Co. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GIRL  FROM  .ARIZONA 


Norwood  Press 

Berwick  &  Smith  Co, 

Norwood,  Mass. 

U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Making  the  Best  of  Things i 

II  The  Comtng  of  Undine 13 

III  Trying  to  Remember 29 

IV  A  Visitor  from  the  East 43 

V  Uncle  Henry's  Proposition 58 

VI  The  Last  Evening 70 

VII  Marjorie   Writes   Letters 81 

VIII  Aunt  Julia  and  Elsie 91 

IX  Marjorie  Takes  a  Morning  Walk     .     .     .110 

X  New  Friends   and   New   Fashions     .     .     .127 

XI  Marjorie  Engages  in  Battle 137 

XII  A  Motor  Ride  and  a  Football  Game    .     .  155 

XIII  Marjorie  Surprises  Her  Relatives    .     .     .170 

XIV  The  Poetry  Club 182 

XV  Elsie  Triumphs 197 

XVI  The   Things    that   Hurt 216 

XVII  Beverly   Sings  "Mandalay" 236 

XVIII  In  the   Sunny   South 254 

XIX  A  Virginia  Christmas 266 

XX  Marjorie  Sees  a  Photograph 275 

XXI  Undine   Remembers 290 

XXII  Undine  Tells  Her  Story 306 

XXIII  Breaking  the  News 3*7 

XXIV  Marjorie  Has  Her  Wish 33 1 

XXV  Elsie  Redeems  Herself 34* 


ivil3825o 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Aren't   you    going   to   be    friends    with   me?"    (Page 
225)         Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

"Where  in  the  world  did  you  come  from?"    ...     20 

With  one  quick  movement  she  seized  the  whip  handle  146 

"Oh,   Mather  dear,   I'm   so  sorry!" 244 

"Land   sakes,   Missy!    What  is  it?" 284 

"It  takes   a  lot  of  pluck  to  get  up  and  say  a  thing 
like  that" 354 


THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

CHAPTER  I 
making  the  best  of  things 

"  Marjorie." 

The  clear  call  rang  out,  breaking  the  afternoon 
stillness  of  the  ranch,  but  there  was  no  response, 
and  after  waiting  a  moment  Miss  Graham  gave 
her  wheeled  chair  a  gentle  push,  which  sent  it 
rolling  smoothly  across  the  porch  of  the  ranch 
house,  down  the  inclined  plane,  which  served  the 
purpose  of  steps,  to  the  lawn.  It  was  very  hot, 
the  sun  was  blazing  down  as  only  an  Arizona  sun 
can  blaze,  and  not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring. 
But  Miss  Graham  was  accustomed  to  the  heat  and 
the  glare.  She  paused  for  a  moment,  gazing  off 
over  the  vast  prairie  to  the  California  mountains, 
nearly  a  hundred  miles  away.  She  generally 
paused  on  that  same  spot  for  one  look,  although 
the  landscape  was  the  only  one  she  had  seen  in 
twelve  years.  Then  she  moved  on  again,  across 
the  lawn,  now  parched  and  dry  from  the  long 


2      THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

summer's  heat,  toward  the  stables  and  out-build- 
ings. It  was  before  the  smallest  of  these  out- 
buildings, a  tiny  log  cabin,  that  she  finally  brought 
the  chair  to  a  standstill. 

"  Marjorie,  are  you  there?" 

There  was  a  sound  of  some  one  moving  in- 
side, and  a  girl  of  fourteen,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand,  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  was  a 
pretty  girl,  with  soft  light  hair  that  curled  over 
her  temples,  and  bright,  merry  blue  eyes,  but  just 
now  the  eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  and  there 
were  unmistakable  tear-marks  on  the  girl's  cheeks. 
At  sight  of  the  lady  in  the  wheeled  chair,  how- 
ever, Marjorie's  face  brightened,  and  she  hurried 
forward,  exclaiming  remorsefully: 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Jessie  dear,  did  you  come  all  this 
way  by  yourself?  I'm  so  sorry.  Do  you  want 
me  to  do  something  for  you  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  be  sorry,"  said  her  aunt,  smil- 
ing. "  The  exercise  will  do  me  good,  and  I  am 
quite  proud  of  being  able  to  manage  this  chair  so 
easily.  I  called  you  from  the  porch,  but  you 
didn't  hear.  Your  mother  and  Juanita  are  busy 
in  the  kitchen  making  jam,  and  I  wasn't  of  any 
use  there,  so  I  thought  I  would  come  and  see 
what  you  were  about.  I  felt  pretty  sure  of  find- 
ing you  in  the  old  playhouse." 


MAKING  BEST  OF  THINGS      3 

"  Come  in,"  said  Marjorie,  eagerly.  "  You 
haven't  been  in  the  playhouse  in  ages ;  not  since  I 
grew  too  big  to  invite  you  to  "  make-believe  " 
tea,  but  the  door  is  just  wide  enough  for  the 
chair;  don't  you  remember?  Let  me  help  you 
in?"  And  springing  to  Miss  Graham's  side, 
Marjorie  seized  the  handle  of  the  chair,  and  care- 
fully guided  it  through  the  narrow  entrance,  into 
the  little  house  her  father  had  built  for  her  own 
special  use,  and  which  had  always  been  known 
as  the  playhouse.  It  might  still  have  been  re- 
garded as  a  playhouse,  although  its  owner  had 
grown  too  old  to  play  there.  A  couple  of  bat- 
tered dolls  reposed  upon  a  toy  bedstead  in  one 
corner,  and  an  array  of  china  dishes,  all  more  or 
less  the  worse  for  wear,  adorned  the  shelves. 
Marjorie  loved  her  few  possessions  dearly,  and 
in  a  place  where  one's  nearest  neighbor  lives 
five  miles  away,  there  are  not  many  people  on 
whom  to  bestow  things  which  have  ceased  to  be 
useful  to  one's  self,  and  they  are  therefore  likely 
to  be  preserved. 

"  Now  we're  all  nice  and  cosy,"  remarked 
Marjorie,  seating  herself  comfortably  on  the 
floor  at  her  aunt's  feet.  "  There  wouldn't  be 
room  for  another  person  in  here,  even  if  there 
were  anybody  to  come.     What  good  times  we 


4      THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

used  to  have  here  when  I  was  little,  didn't  we, 
Aunt  Jessie  ?  " 

Marjorie  spoke  fast  and  nervously,  but  there 
were  pink  spots  in  her  cheeks,  and  Miss  Graham 
was  not  easily  deceived. 

"What's  the  matter,  Marjorie?"  she  asked 
simply.  She  and  her  niece  had  no  secrets  from 
each  other. 

Marjorie  tried  to  laugh,  but  her  lip  quivered, 
and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  There  isn't  anything  the  matter,"  she  said, 
frankly.  "  I've  been  a  goose,  that's  all.  It  was 
all  the  fault  of  the  book  I  was  reading." 

"What  book  was  it?"  Miss  Graham  inquired 
curiously,  glancing  at  the  volume  Marjorie  was 
still  holding  in  her  hand. 

"  It's  called  *  The  Friendship  of  Anne/  and 
it's  one  of  those  in  that  box  Father  had  sent  from 
Albuquerque.  It's  all  about  a  big  boarding- 
school  full  of  girls,  and  the  good  times  they  had 
there,  but  somehow  it  set  me  thinking,  and  — 
and,  I  don't  know  why,  perhaps  because  it's  been 
so  hot  and  still  all  day,  but  I  began  to  feel  as  if 
I  wanted  to  cry,  and  so  I  came  out  here  to  have 
it  out."  Suddenly  Marjorie  dropped  her  head 
in  her  aunt's  lap,  with  a  sob. 

For  a  moment  Miss  Graham  was  silent.     She 


MAKING  BEST  OF  THINGS      5 

stroked  the  soft,  fluffy  hair  with  her  thin  fingers, 
and  a  look  of  comprehension  came  into  her  face. 
When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  very  gentle. 

"  I  understand,  little  girl,"  she  said  tenderly. 
"  You  haven't  said  much  about  it,  but  I  know  it 
was  a  big  disappointment  that  Father  couldn't 
afford  to  send  you  to  school  at  Albuquerque  this 
winter.  It  was  a  disappointment  to  all  of  us, 
much  as  we  should  have  missed  you,  but  it  is  one 
of  those  things  everybody  has  to  bear  sometimes/' 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Marjorie,  checking  her  tears, 
and  making  a  great  effort  to  speak  cheerfully. 
"  It  wasn't  poor  Father's  fault  that  so  many  of 
the  cattle  died  this  year,  or  that  the  drought 
spoiled  the  alfalfa  crop.  I  try  to  think  that  per- 
haps it's  all  for  the  best,  and  that  if  I  really  left 
you  all,  and  went  away  to  school,  I  might  have 
died  of  homesickness.  But  when  I  read  that 
story,  and  thought  of  all  the  people  and  things 
there  are  in  the  world  that  I've  never  seen,  it 
was  just  a  little  bit  hard  to  feel  cheerful.  Mother 
teaches  me  all  she  can,  and  so  do  you  and  Father, 
but  I'm  fourteen  and  a  half,  and  I  hate  to  think 
of  growing  up  without  any  real  education.  If  I 
were  well  educated,  I  might  teach,  and  be  a  real 
help  to  you  all,  but  there  isn't  anything  I  can  do 
now  but  just  sit  still  and  make  the  best  of  things." 


6      THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Making  the  best  of  things  is  what  we  all 
have  to  do,"  said  Miss  Graham,  smiling  rather 
sadly.  "  You  do  it  very  well,  too,  Marjorie  dear. 
Your  father  and  I  were  talking  last  evening  of 
how  bravely  you  have  borne  this  disappointment. 
We  all  realize  what  it  has  meant  to  you,  but  we 
are  not  a  family  who  are  much  given  to  talking 
about  our  troubles." 

"  I  know  we're  not,"  said  Marjorie,  "  and  I'm 
glad  of  it.  How  uncomfortable  it  would  be  if 
you  and  Mother  were  always  saying  you  were 
sorry  for  each  other,  and  if  Father  looked  solemn 
every  time  a  cow  died.  I  should  hate  to  be  con- 
doled with,  and  treated  as  if  I  needed  pity,  but 
still  I  can't  help  wishing  sometimes  that  I  could 
do  some  of  the  things  other  girls  do.  Why,  just 
think,  Aunt  Jessie,  I've  never  had  a  friend  of  my 
own  age  in  my  life.  I've  never  been  on  a  train, 
or  seen  a  city  since  I  can  remember." 

Miss  Graham  continued  to  stroke  the  fluffy 
hair,  and  a  troubled  look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  understand,  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't 
blame  you  in  the  least.  I  know  the  feelings  of 
loneliness  and  longing  too  well  for  that." 

"Do  you  really,  Aunt  Jessie?"  questioned 
Marjorie,  looking  up  in  surprise.  "  I  didn't  sup- 
pose you  ever  longed  for  anything;  you're  such 


MAKING  BEST  OF  THINGS      7 

an  angel  of  patience.  I  suppose  it's  wrong,  but 
I  can't  help  being  glad  you  do,  though,  because 
it  makes  it  so  much  easier  to  explain  things  to 
you.  I  can't  bear  to  have  Father  and  Mother 
think  I'm  not  perfectly  happy  and  contented;  it 
makes  Father  look  so  sad,  and  I  know  Mother 
worries  about  my  education.  I  never  thought  of 
it  before,  but  you  were  a  girl,  too,  when  you  first 
came  here,  weren't  you?  " 

Miss  Graham  smiled.  She  was  only  twenty- 
eight,  and  girlhood  did  not  seem  so  much  a  thing 
of  the  past,  but  Marjorie  was  fourteen,  and  to 
her  twenty-eight  seemed  an  age  quite  removed 
from  all  youthful  aspirations. 

"  I  was  just  sixteen  when  we  came  out  here," 
she  said,  "  and  it  seemed  very  strange  at  first  to 
be  away  from  all  my  friends,  but  girl-like  I  en- 
joyed the  change,  and  it  was  not  for  a  year  or 
two  that  I  began  to  realize  what  life  on  an  Ari- 
zona ranch  really  meant.  Your  father  and 
mother  were  very  good  to  me,  but  they  were  ab- 
sorbed in  each  other,  and  in  their  work,  and  you 
were  too  little  to  be  any  real  company  to  me. 
There  was  plenty  of  work  to  be  done,  and  I  tried 
to  do  my  share,  but  there  were  many  lonely  times 
when  I  rebelled  bitterly  against  fate.  I  used  to 
think  of  those  times  later  on,  after  the  accident, 


8      THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

and  then  it  seemed  strange  that  I  should  ever 
have  fretted  over  such  foolish  trifles,  but  they 
were  very  real  to  me  once." 

Marjorie  took  her  aunt's  hand  and  kissed  it. 
Demonstrations  of  affection  were  rather  rare  in 
the  Graham  family,  but  the  girl  could  never  think 
of  that  accident  without  a  lump  rising  in  her 
throat.  She  had  heard  the  story  dozens  of  times. 
She  had  even  a  dim  recollection  of  the  day  it  had 
happened  —  the  day  on  which  her  pretty,  merry 
young  aunt  had  started  for  a  canter  over  the 
prairie,  on  a  wild  young  bronco,  and  had  been 
carried  home  white  and  unconscious,  never  to 
ride,  or  even  walk  again.  Just  how  it  had  all 
happened  nobody  ever  knew.  An  Indian  boy, 
coming  suddenly  out  of  a  cabin,  had  shouted  and 
waved  his  hands  to  a  companion.  The  noise  had 
frightened  the  bronco,  and  he  had  dashed  off  at 
full  speed,  and  Jessie  Graham,  experienced  horse- 
woman though  she  was,  had  lost  her  balance,  and 
been  thrown  violently  to  the  ground,  striking  her 
back  against  a  sharp  stone.  That  was  eight  years 
ago,  and  during  all  that  time  her  life  had  been 
passed,  first  in  bed,  and  then  in  a  wheeled  chair. 

Marjorie  rose  suddenly.  There  were  some 
things  it  wasn't  possible  to  make  the  best  of,  and 
it  was  wisest  not  to  talk  about  them. 


MAKING  BEST  OF  THINGS      9 

"  It's  getting  a  little  cooler,"  she  said  irrele- 
vantly; "  I  think  I'll  saddle  Roland,  and  go  for  a 
ride  before  supper.  You're  an  angel,  Aunt  Jes- 
sie, and  I'm  glad  you  told  me  how  you  used  to 
feel.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself,  but  it  makes  the 
disappointment  easier  to  bear  because  you  under- 
stand. Shall  I  wheel  you  back  to  the  house,  or 
is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you  before  I 

go?" 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  Marjorig  mounted 
astride  her  bay  pony,  was  trotting  briskly  out 
over  the  prairie.  Her  aunt  watched  her  from  the 
porch  of  the  ranch  house. 

"  Poor  little  girl,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  as 
horse  and  rider  disappeared  from  view  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  "she  bears  her  disappointment  bravely, 
but  it's  hard  —  hard  for  her,  and  for  us  all." 

A  footstep  was  heard,  and  her  sister-in-law, 
Marjorie's  mother,  came  out  on  the  porch.  Mrs. 
Graham  had  once  been  very  pretty,  but  twelve 
years  of  hard  work,  and  constant  anxiety  as  to 
ways  and  means,  had  brought  a  careworn  expres- 
sion into  the  eyes  that  were  so  like  Marjorie's, 
and  the  hand  she  laid  on  the  back  of  Miss  Gra- 
ham's chair  was  rough  and  hardened  from  house- 
work. 

"  It's  been  a  hot  day,  hasn't  it?  "  she  said,  "  but 


io    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

it's  cooler  now/'  and  she  smiled  the  brave,  cheer- 
ful smile  she  had  never  lost  through  all  their 
troubles  and  anxieties.  "  Juanita  and  I  have  put 
up  six  dozen  jars  of  blackberries  to-day;  not  a 
bad  day's  record,  is  it?  Have  you  heard  the 
whistle  of  the  East  Bound?  " 

"I  am  not  sure;  I  thought  I  heard  a  whistle 
about  half  an  hour  ago,  but  I  have  been  with 
Marjorie  in  the  playhouse.  We  have  been  hav- 
ing a  talk." 

"  Has  she  said  anything  about  her  disappoint- 
ment?" 

"  Yes,  a  little.  She  is  bearing  it  splendidly, 
but  it  is  a  real  grief  to  her,  notwithstanding." 

Mrs.  Graham  sighed. 

"  I  was  afraid  it  would  be,"  she  said.  "  It 
would  almost  have  broken  my  heart  to  part  from 
her,  but  Donald  and  I  had  made  up  our  minds 
to  let  her  go.  It  seemed  the  only  way  of  giving 
the  child  a  chance  in  life,  and  now  this  disease 
among  the  cattle  has  put  an  end  to  everything. 
Donald  says  we  may  be  able  to  send  her  next 
year,  but  she  will  be  nearly  sixteen  then,  and  time 
is  precious.  I  wish  I  knew  more  myself,  so  that 
I  could  help  my  little  girl,  but,  like  so  many  other 
girls,  I  wasted  my  time  at  school.  O  dear!  if 
children  only  realized  what  an  education  might 


MAKING  BEST  OF  THINGS    n 

mean  to  them  some  day,  they  wouldn't  fritter 
away  their  time,  as  half  of  them  do." 

"  Susie,"  said  Miss  Graham,  impulsively, 
"have  you  ever  thought  of  writing  to  your 
brother  Henry  about  Marjorie?  " 

The  sensitive  color  rose  in  Mrs.  Graham's 
cheeks,  and  for  a  moment  she  looked  almost  as 
pretty  as  in  the  days  when  Jessie,  in  the  rapturous 
devotion  of  her  teens,  had  considered  her  "the 
loveliest  sister-in-law  in  the  world." 

"  Yes,  I  have  thought  of  it,"  she  said,  "but  — 
but  somehow  I  haven't  been  able  to  make  up  my 
mind  to  do  it.  You  know  my  family  never  ap- 
proved of  Donald's  coming  out  here.  My  brother 
offered  him  a  position  in  his  office  in  New  York, 
but  Donald  said  he  had  no  head  for  business,  and 
he  loves  this  wild  life,  hard  as  it  has  been.  I 
have  never  let  my  people  know  of  our  difficulties ; 
they  would  have  been  kind,  I  daresay,  but  one 
hates  to  ask  favors." 

"  I  know,"  said  Miss  Graham,  comprehend- 
ingly ;  "  still,  for  Marjorie's  sake  — " 

Mrs.  Graham  looked  troubled. 

"  Donald  and  I  were  talking  about  it  only  last 
night,"  she  said.  "  It  isn't  right  to  deprive  the 
child  of  advantages  she  might  have,  but  think  of 
sending  her  all  the  way  to  New  York,  even  if 


12     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Henry  and  his  wife  were  willing  to  take  her. 
Albuquerque  would  have  been  different ;  she  could 
at  least  have  come  home  for  the  holidays,  but 
New  York  —  why,  think  of  it,  Jessie,  she  has 
never  been  away  from  us  for  a  night  in  her  life!  " 

Mrs.  Graham  paused  abruptly,  her  face  con- 
tracted with  pain.  The  tears  started  to  Miss 
Jessie's  eyes,  but  her  voice  was  still  quite  firm 
when  she  spoke  again. 

"It  would  be  very  hard,"  she  said,  "harder 
for  us  perhaps  than  for  Marjorie  herself,  and  yet 
if  it  were  the  best  thing  to  do  — " 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  Jua- 
nita,  the  Mexican  maid  of  all  work,  who  appeared 
with  the  startling  announcement  that  the  jam 
was  boiling  over  on  the  stove,  and  Mrs.  Graham 
hurried  away  to  the  kitchen,  leaving  her  sister-in- 
law  to  her  own  reflections. 


.  CHAPTER  II 

THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE 

In  the  meantime,  Marjorie,  quite  unconscious 
of  the  anxieties  of  her  family  regarding  her  fu- 
ture, was  cantering  away  over  the  prairie  on  her 
bay  pony.  Having  passed  the  last  buildings  of 
the  ranch,  and  trotted  through  the  Indian  village, 
where  more  than  one  woman,  and  numerous  cop- 
per-colored  children  smiled  a  friendly  greeting, 
she  turned  her  pony's  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
railroad.  The  nearest  town  was  more  than 
twenty  miles  away,  but  the  line  of  the  Santa  Fe 
Railroad  ran  within  a  comparatively  short  dis- 
tance from  the  ranch,  and  twice  every  day  the 
stillness  was  broken  by  the  whistles  of  the  east 
and  west  bound  trains,  as  they  rushed  by  on  their 
way  across  the  continent,  from  Los  Angeles  to 
Chicago.  To  watch  the  trains  go  by  had  been 
one  of  the  amusements  of  Marjorie's  life,  ever 
since  she  could  remember.  When  she  was  a  lit- 
tle girl,  it  had  been  a  great  treat  to  be  taken  by 

13 


i4    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

her  father,  on  his  big  chestnut  horse,  and  to  have 
him  draw  rein  in  full  view  of  the  tracks,  and  wait 
to  see  the  great  iron  horse  come  rushing  by.  As 
soon  as  she  was  old  enough  to  ride  out  by  herself, 
this  spot  had  become  one  of  her  favorite  after- 
noon excursions.  There  was  a  wonderful  fasci- 
nation in  watching  the  long  line  of  sleepers  and 
day  coaches,  filled  with  people,  and  to  wonder 
where  they  could  all  be  going,  and  speculate  as  to 
what  might  be  happening  on  the  other  side  of 
those  moving  windows.  Sometimes  of  late  the 
longing  to  know  more  of  the  outside  world,  and 
to  follow  those  ever  moving  cars,  had  become  al- 
most irresistible. 

"  If  I  could  only  take  one  real  journey  I  be- 
lieve I  should  be  happy  forever,"  she  would  say 
to  herself,  and  the  hope  of  going  to  school  at  Al- 
buquerque, two  hundred  miles  away,  had  filled 
her  with  a  wild  kind  of  joy  that  was  not  unmixed 
with  fear.  But  now  that  hope  had  been  crushed, 
for  the  present  at  least,  and  Marjorie,  who  was  a 
sensible  little  soul,  had  decided  that  it  might  be 
wiser  to  avoid  watching  the  trains  go  by  just 
now.  For  a  week  she  had  kept  away  from  the 
line,  at  the  hours  when  trains  were  likely  to  pass, 
but  this  afternoon  she  felt  more  cheerful.  The 
little  talk  with  her  aunt  had  done  her  good,  and 


THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE     15 

she  resolved  to  take  Aunt  Jessie's  advice,  and  try 
to  make  the  best  of  things.  So  when  the  pony 
manifested  a  desire  to  take  the  familiar  turning, 
she  let  him  have  his  way,  and  trotted  on  quite 
cheerfully  toward  the  railroad. 

"  I'm  afraid  we're  too  late  to-day,  Roland,"  she 
remarked  aloud,  as  the  pony  plodded  on  bravely 
through  the  dust  and  heat.  "  I  didn't  hear  the 
whistle,  but  I'm  sure  the  East  Bound  must  have 
passed,  and  the  West  Bound  went  through  at  two 
o'clock." 

Having  very  few  people  to  talk  to,  Marjorie 
had  formed  the  habit  of  talking  to  her  live  pets, 
of  which  Roland  was  her  favorite.  Her  father 
had  given  him  to  her  when  he  was  only  a  month 
old,  and  she  had  trained  him  herself,  as  soon  as 
he  was  old  enough  to  bear  the  saddle,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  many  romps  the  two  had  enjoyed 
together  in  the  days  of  his  colthood.  It  seemed 
to  her  sometimes  as  if  Roland  must  really  under- 
stand some  of  the  things  she  told  him,  and  now, 
at  her  remark  about  the  train,  he  slackened  his 
pace  to  a  leisurely  trot,  as  if  under  the  impression 
that  there  was  no  use  in  hurrying. 

"It  is  hot,  isn't  it,  Roland?"  said  Marjorie, 
sympathetically.  "  You  and  I  will  be  glad  when 
winter  comes,  and  we  can  have  some  fine  gallops. 


16    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

I  thought  I  might  be  going  away  to  leave  you  this 
winter,  but  I'm  not." 

Roland  pricked  up  his  ears,  and  quickened  his 
pace. 

"What  is  it,  Roland?"  Marjorie  inquired  in 
surprise.  "Oh,  I  see,  it's  Jose  on  his  black 
bronco." 

Her  face  brightened,  and  she  waved  her  hand 
in  friendly  welcome  to  the  approaching  figure  of 
a  small  Mexican  boy,  mounted  on  an  equally 
small  pony. 

"  Hello,  Jose ! "  she  called,  as  the  two  came 
within  speaking  distance  of  each  other;  "  Do  you 
know  whether  the  East  Bound  has  passed  yet  or 
not?" 

"  See  there,"  said  the  boy,  pointing  in  the  di- 
rection from  which  he  had  come.  "  Something 
wrong  with  engine.  She  been  there  three  hours. 
My  father  tell  me,  and  I  go  see." 

"How  exciting!"  cried  Marjorie,  everything 
else  forgotten  for  the  moment  in  the  interest  of 
this  news.  "  Do  you  think  she'll  stay  much 
longer?" 

Jose  shook  his  head;  he  could  not  say.  He 
was  a  rather  dull  boy,  but  Marjorie  had  known 
him  all  her  life,  as  she  had  known  every  inhab- 
itant, Mexican  or  Indian,  who  had  made  a  home 


THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE     17 

in  that  desolate  region.  She  could  speak  Spanish 
almost  as  well  as  English,  and  could  carry  on  a 
conversation  in  two  Indian  dialects.  She  did  not 
wait  for  any  more  conversation  with  Jose  on  this 
occasion,  however,  but  with  a  chirp  to  Roland  to 
indicate  that  she  wished  to  go  faster,  hurried  the 
pony  along  at  such  a  pace  that  in  less  than 
five  minutes  they  came  in  sight  of  the  waiting 
train. 

No,  she  was  not  too  late.  The  long  transcon- 
tinental express  was  standing  still,  and  a  number 
of  the  passengers  had  left  the  cars  and  were 
sauntering  leisurely  about.  Marjorie's  heart  beat 
fast  with  excitement,  and  she  drew  the  pony  in 
sharply. 

"  We  mustn't  go  too  near,  Roland,"  she  whis- 
pered. "  Oh,  look,  isn't  it  interesting?  See  those 
girls  in  shirt-waists  and  straw  hats.  They  look 
just  about  my  age.  How  I  should  like  to  speak 
to  them,  but  I  suppose  they  would  think  it  queer." 

The  sight  of  a  girl  in  a  striped  khaki  skirt,  with 
a  sombrero  on  her  head,  sitting  astride  a  bay 
pony,  had  quickly  attracted  the  attention  of  some 
of  the  passengers,  and  Marjorie  soon  realized 
that  she  was  being  stared  at  in  a  manner  that  was 
slightly  disconcerting.  Not  that  she  was  in  the 
least  shy,  but  these  strangers  had  a  way  of  look- 


1 8     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

ing  at  her,  as  if  they  found  something  amusing 
in  her  appearance,  and  Marjorie  did  not  like  be- 
ing stared  at  any  more  than  any  other  girl. 

"  I  don't  think  we'll  stay  any  longer,  Roland," 
she  said,  conscious  of  the  fact  that  her  cheeks 
were  burning  uncomfortably.  And  turning  the 
pony's  head  abruptly,  she  galloped  away  in  the 
direction  of  home. 

But  it  was  some  minutes  before  her  cheeks  had 
regained  their  natural  color. 

"  I  wonder  why  they  stared  so,"  she  kept  re- 
peating to  herself.  "  Was  it  the  sombrero  —  I 
don't  suppose  girls  wear  sombreros  in  the  East 
—  or  was  it  something  else?  Oh,  there's  the 
whistle;  thank  goodness  they're  off!"  And 
Marjorie  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  let  Roland 
drop  into  a  trot. 

It  was  still  early  when  she  reached  home,  and 
having  delivered  Roland  to  the  Indian  boy,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  look  after  him,  and  finding  that 
her  mother  and  aunt  were  both  busy,  she  betook 
herself  once  more  to  the  playhouse,  intending  to 
spend  the  hour  before  supper  in  learning  more  of 
the  fortunes  of  Anne  and  her  friends.  But  her 
ride  in  the  heat  had  made  her  sleepy,  and  after 
turning  a  few  pages  rather  listlessly,  her  eyes 
drooped,  and  letting  the  book  slip  into  her  lap, 


THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE     19 

she  rested  her  head  against  the  wall  of  the  cabin, 
and  dropped  off  into  an  afternoon  nap. 

How  long  she  had  been  asleep  she  did  not 
know,  but  she  started  up,  wide  awake,  aroused  by 
a  sound  close  beside  her.  Then  for  a  moment  she 
sat  staring  stupidly  at  the  apparition  before  her; 
for  there,  standing  in  the  doorway,  regarding 
her  with  big,  hungry,  brown  eyes,  was  a  girl  — 
not  a  Mexican  or  an  Indian,  but  a  pale-faced, 
dark-haired  girl  of  about  her  own  age,  in  a  faded 
linen  dress,  much  too  short  in  the  skirt,  and 
a  battered  straw  hat,  decidedly  the  worse  for 
wear. 

"  Goodness  gracious  me !  "  gasped  Marjorie  in 
amazement;  "where  in  the  world  did  you  come 
from?" 

"  I'm  hungry,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  remark- 
ably sweet  voice;  "Won't  you  please  give  me 
something  to  eat?  " 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Marjorie,  fully 
convinced  that  this  was  a  dream. 

A  frightened  expression  came  into  the  big 
brown  eyes,  and  the  girl's  lip  began  to  tremble. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said;  "  I  can't  remember. 
Won't  you  please  give  me  something  to  eat?  " 

"  I  know  I'm  dreaming,"  said  Marjorie,  and 
she  pinched  her  arm,  but  though  the  pinch  hurt 


20    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

considerably,  she  did  not  wake  up.  The  strange 
girl  continued  to  stand  in  the  doorway. 

"  How  —  how  did  you  get  here  ?  "  she  re- 
peated; "  where  did  you  come  from?  " 

"  I  got  off  the  train.  I've  walked  ever  so  far, 
and  it  was  so  hot.  I  thought  there  would  be 
houses,  but  there  weren't  any.  You  won't  be 
cross  with  me,  will  you?  I'm  afraid  of  cross 
people." 

"Why  did  you  get  off  the  train?"  inquired 
Marjorie.  If  this  were  not  a  dream,  then  it  was 
certainly  the  most  extraordinary  adventure  she 
had  ever  had. 

The  brown  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  the 
stranger  clasped  her  hands  nervously. 

"  Don't  scold,  ah,  please  don't,"  she  pleaded ; 
"  I'm  so  tired  of  being  scolded.  I  got  off  the 
train  because  Mrs.  Hicks  was  so  cross  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer.  She  said  I  was  a  lazy,  good- 
for-nothing  girl,  and  she  wished  she  had  never 
promised  to  take  me  to  Kansas.  I  said  I  wished 
she  hadn't  either,  and  that  I  didn't  want  to  go  to 
Kansas  or  anywhere  else  with  her,  and  then  she 
said  I  was  an  impudent  little  wretch,  and  she 
wished  she  could  get  rid  of  me.  She  slapped  me, 
too,  and  that  made  me  furious,  so  when  she  sent 
me  to  the  dining-car  to  get  some  milk  for  the 


'Where  in  the  World  Did  You  Come  from?" — Page  19. 


THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE    21 

baby,  and  the  train  was  standing  still,  I  just  got 
off.  I  don't  want  to  stay  with  people  who  don't 
like  me,  and  I  can't  stand  being  slapped." 

"  But  think  how  frightened  your  friend  must 
have  been  when  the  train  started  and  you  didn't 
come  back,"  said  Marjorie,  reproachfully.  She 
did  not  know  quite  what  to  make  of  this  singular 
young  person,  who  appeared  to  think  nothing  of 
deserting  her  friends,  and  wandering  off  by  her- 
self on  the  prairie. 

"  Mrs.  Hicks  isn't  my  friend,  and  she  won't 
care,  anyway;  she'll  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  me.  I 
heard  her  telling  a  woman  on  the  train  that  I 
was  an  awful  nuisance,  and  she  couldn't  think 
why  she  had  ever  promised  her  sister  to  take  me 
to  Kansas  with  her.  She  doesn't  want  me  —  no- 
body wants  me,  nobody  in  the  whole  world!" 
And  suddenly  this  extraordinary  visitor  put  both 
hands  before  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Marjorie  sprang  to  her  feet,  wide  awake  at 
last.  She  had  not  seen  many  people  cry,  and  the 
sight  always  affected  her  deeply. 

"  Oh,  don't,  please  don't ! "  she  cried,  and  al- 
most without  realizing  what  she  was  doing  she 
had  slipped  an  arm  about  the  shaking  shoulders. 
"  We'll  take  care  of  you,  of  course  we  will,  and 
you  can  tell  us  about  everything.     Oh,  please  do 


22     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

stop  crying;  you  make  me  so  very  uncomfort- 
able."  ' 

But  the  brown-eyed  girl  did  not  stop  crying. 
On  the  contrary,  she  cried  all  the  harder,  and 
buried  her  face  on  Marjorie's  shoulder. 

"  You're  kind,  oh,  you're  kind !  "  sobbed  the 
poor  child,  clinging  convulsively  to  her  new 
friend.  "  Nobody  was  ever  kind  to  me  before 
except  old  Mr.  Jackson,  and  now  he's  dead.  I've 
been  so  miserable,  and  it's  so  dreadful  not  to  re- 
member anything,  not  even  my  name." 

"Your  name?"  repeated  Marjorie  stupidly; 
"  do  you  mean  you  don't  even  know  your  own 
name?  " 

The  stranger  shook  her  head  mournfully  as  she 
searched  for  a  missing  pocket-handkerchief. 
Marjorie  supplied  the  handkerchief  from  her  own 
pocket,  and  sympathetically  wiped  her  visitor's 
eyes. 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  doubtfully ; 
"  I  never  heard  of  a  person's  not  knowing  her 
own  name.     Haven't  you  any  relatives?" 

"  I  suppose  I  had  once,  but  I  can't  remember 
them.  The  first  thing  I  remember  is  waking  up 
in  a  hospital,  It  was  just  after  the  earthquake 
in  San  Francisco,  and  they  told  me  I  was  found 
in  the  street  under  some  ruins.     They  thought  a 


THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE     23 

stone  or  something  must  have  fallen  on  my  head, 
and  that  was  what  made  me  forget  everything. 
Nobody  knew  whom  I  belonged  to,  and  I  had 
only  a  nightgown  on  when  I  was  found,  so  they 
couldn't  trace  me  by  my  clothes.  At  first  the 
doctors  thought  I  would  remember  soon,  and 
they  used  to  ask  me  questions,  but  I  never  could 
answer  any  of  them.  They  kept  me  at  the  hos- 
pital a  long  time,  but  I  was  always  frightened 
because  I  couldn't  remember  anything.  At  last 
when  I  was  strong  again,  and  nobody  came  to 
look  for  me,  they  said  they  couldn't  keep  me  there 
any  longer.  They  sent  me  to  the  *  Home  For 
The  Friendless  in  Oakland,'  but  I  had  only  been 
there  a  week  when  Miss  Brent  came  to  look  for  a 
girl  to  run  errands,  and  carry  home  parcels. 
They  told  her  about  me,  and  she  said  she  would 
take  me,  because  I  might  have  rich  friends,  who 
wrould  come  for  me,  and  pay  her  well  for  taking 
care  of  me.  So  I  went  to  live  with  her,  and  she 
put  an  advertisement  about  me  in  the  newspapers. 
For  a  long  time  I  kept  hoping  some  one  would 
come  for  me,  but  nobody  ever  did.  Miss  Brent 
was  a  dressmaker,  and  she  had  a  lot  of  girls 
working  for  her,  but  I  didn't  like  any  of  them, 
they  were  so  rough,  and  they  used  to  laugh  at  me, 
and  call  me  '  loony.'     Miss  Brent  called  me  Sally, 


24    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

but  I  know  that  isn't  my  real  name.  I  got  so 
tired  running  errands,  and  carrying  the  heavy 
boxes  home  made  my  back  ache.  I  don't  think 
I  could  have  stood  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mr. 
Jackson.  He  boarded  with  Miss  Brent,  and  lived 
in  a  little  room  on  the  top  floor.  He  was  very 
old,  and  nobody  paid  much  attention  to  him,  but 
I  was  sorry  for  him,  and  I  used  to  carry  up  his 
meals,  and  he  talked  to  me  so  kindly.  He  never 
made  fun  of  me,  because  I  couldn't  remember, 
but  he  lent  me  books  to  read,  and  asked  me  ques- 
tions like  the  doctors  at  the  hospital.  It's  very 
queer,  but  I  could  always  remember  how  to  read. 
I  can  write,  too,  and  I  can  even  remember  things 
in  history,  but  I  can't  remember  a  single  thing 
about  myself.  Mr.  Jackson  said  he  was  sure  my 
memory  would  come  back  some  day,  and  then  I 
would  be  able  to  find  my  friends.  He  died  last 
winter,  and  after  that  it  was  dreadful.  Miss 
Brent  was  always  busy  and  cross,  and  the  girls 
were  worse  than  ever.  A  month  ago  Miss  Brent 
told  us  she  was  going  to  be  married,  and  give  up 
the  business,  and  that  all  the  girls  would  have  to 
leave.  Most  of  them  didn't  mind,  because  they 
had  homes,  but  Miss  Brent  said  she  didn't  know 
what  in  the  world  to  do  with  me.  She  didn't 
think  any  one  would  take  me,  because  I  wasn't 


THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE    25 

strong  enough  to  do  hard  work,  and  she  was 
afraid  I  was  too  old  to  go  back  to  the  '  Home  For 
The  Friendless.' 

"  The  wedding  was  last  week,  and  Mrs.  Hicks 
came  on  from  Kansas.  She  is  Miss  Brent's  sis- 
ter, and  her  husband  has  a  big  cattle  farm.  Mrs. 
Hicks  brought  her  baby  with  her,  and  they  got 
me  to  help  take  care  of  it,  and  then  Miss  Brent 
persuaded  her  sister  to  take  me  home  with  her. 
I  didn't  want  to  go,  for  I  knew  I  shouldn't  like 
Mrs.  Hicks,  but  Miss  Brent  said  I  must.  We 
started  yesterday,  and  it  was  awful.  Mrs.  Hicks 
kept  saying  she  knew  I  would  never  be  any  use 
to  her,  and  the  baby  was  so  heavy,  and  cried  all 
the  time.  I  had  just  about  made  up  my  mind  to 
run  away  when  Mrs.  Hicks  slapped  me,  and  that 
settled  it.  I  never  was  slapped  before,  and  I 
couldn't  stand  it." 

The  brown  eyes  flashed  indignantly,  and  there 
was  a  crimson  spot  in  both  the  girl's  cheeks. 
Marjorie  had  been  listening  to  this  strange  story 
in  breathless  astonishment.  It  did  not  occur  to 
her  for  a  moment  to  doubt  its  truth.  Before  she 
could  ask  any  more  questions,  however,  she  was 
brought  back  to  a  recollection  of  every-day  life 
once  more  by  the  sound  of  her  father's  voice  call- 
ing from  the  porch : 


26    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Supper's  ready,  Marjorie." 

Marjorie  came  down  to  earth  with  a  rush,  and 
hastily  explaining  to  her  new  friend  that  she 
would  be  back  in  a  minute,  dashed  away  to  the 
house,  there  to  electrify  her  family  with  the  as- 
tounding news  that  there  was  a  strange  girl  in 
the  playhouse,  who  had  walked  all  the  way 
from  the  railroad,  and  didn't  know  her  own 
name. 

When  Marjorie  returned  five  minutes  later, 
she  was  accompanied  by  an  excited  group,  con- 
sisting of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham,  Miss  Jessie, 
and  the  Mexican  servant,  Juanita.  At  sight  of  so 
many  strangers  the  visitor  shrank  into  a  corner, 
and  her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  bigger  and  more 
frightened  than  ever,  but  when  Mrs.  Graham 
spoke  to  her  in  her  kind,  motherly  voice,  the  pale 
face  lighted  up,  and  holding  out  both  hands  to 
Marjorie's  mother,  she  exclaimed  joyfully : 

"  You're  kind,  too ;  I  can  see  it  in  your  face. 
Oh,  please  don't  send  me  away;  I'm  so  tired  and 
hungry,  and  I  don't  know  where  else  I  can  pos- 
sibly go." 

"And  what  are  we  to  call  you,  my  dear?" 
Mrs.  Graham  inquired,  late  that  evening,  when 
the  uninvited  guest  had  been  refreshed  by  a  bath 
and  a  hearty  supper,  and  was  lying  back  comfort- 


THE  COMING  OF  UNDINE    27 

ably  in  the  big  rocker  in  the  living-room.  "  Did 
I  understand  Marjorie  to  say  that  you  had  been 
called  Sally?" 

The  stranger  pouted.  Now  that  her  face  was 
washed  she  was  really  very  pretty. 

"  I  hate  '  Sally/  "  she  said,  impatiently;  "  it's 
not  my  name,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  need  be 
called  by  it.  I  wish  you'd  call  me  something 
pretty." 

Mrs.  Graham  looked  a  little  doubtful,  but  Mar- 
jorie, who  was  regarding  this  singular  young 
person  in  a  kind  of  fascinated  awe  —  half  ex- 
pecting to  see  her  vanish  at  any  moment  as  mys- 
teriously as  she  had  come  —  hastened  to  the  res- 
cue. 

"  I've  thought  of  a  beautiful  name  for  her, 
Mother,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  Why  can't  we  call 
her  Undine  — at  least  till  she  remembers  what 
her  name  really  is?  She  didn't  come  out  of  a 
fountain,  but  she  really  did  come  almost  as  mys- 
teriously as  Undine  came  to  the  fisherman's  hut, 
in  the  story.  Would  you  like  to  be  called  Un- 
dine, Sally?" 

"  I  should  love  it,"  declared  the  visitor  in  a 
tone  of  satisfaction  and  as  Marjorie  generally 
had  her  way,  and  Undine  really  seemed  as  good 
a  name  as  any  other,  the  matter  was  settled,  and 


28     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

the  new  Undine  fell  asleep  that  night,  happier 
than  she  had  ever  been  since  that  strange  waking 
in  the  California  hospital,  more  than  two  years 
before. 


CHAPTER  III 

TRYING  TO  REMEMBER 

"  And  so  Undine  went  back  into  the  fountain, 
carrying  the  knight,  Hildebrand,  with  her,  and 
nobody  ever  saw  either  of  them  again.  I  al- 
ways wished  it  hadn't  ended  there,  but  had  gone 
on  to  tell  what  became  of  the  fisherman  and  his 
wife,  and  all  the  other  people.  That's  the  great 
trouble  with  stories;  they  are  so  apt  to  end  just 
where  you  want  to  hear  more.  If  I  ever  wrote 
a  book  I  should  put  a  chapter  at  the  end,  telling 
what  became  of  all  the  characters  afterward." 

The  two  girls  were  sitting  together  on  the 
porch;  Marjorie  busily  engaged  in  darning  stock- 
ings ;  the  new  Undine  patiently  hemming  a  towel. 
It  was  a  week  since  the  arrival  of  "  the  myste- 
rious stranger,"  as  Marjorie  called  her,  and  she 
had  already  become  an  established  member  of  the 
household.  Marjorie  accepted  the  mystery  of  a 
girl  who  didn't  know  her  own  name,  and  who  ap- 
parently belonged  to  nobody,  just  as  she  would 
have  accepted  any  other  girl  friend  who  might 

29 


3o    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

have  come  into  her  rather  uneventful  life.  It 
had  never  even  occurred  to  her  to  doubt  the  truth 
of  Undine's  strange  story.  The  rest  of  the 
family  had  not  been  quite  so  easily  satisfied,  and 
for  several  days  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  had  been 
inclined  to  regard  the  stranger  with  some  doubt, 
even  suspicion;  but  there  was  something  very 
winning  about  this  new  Undine  —  she  seemed 
such  a  simple,  innocent  child  —  so  grateful  for 
every  kindness,  and  so  eager  to  be  of  use  in 
the  household  —  that  they  gradually  found  them- 
selves coming  to  believe  in  her,  in  spite  of  ap- 
pearances. 

"  I  am  sure  the  child  is  telling  the  truth  as  far 
as  she  knows  it,"  Aunt  Jessie  had  said  to  her  sis- 
ter-in-law that  morning.  "  It  all  sounds  very 
strange  and  incredible,  I  know,  but  I  can't  doubt 
the  truth  in  those  honest  eyes  of  hers.  I  am 
really  growing  quite  fond  of  her  already."  To 
which  Mrs.  Graham  had  replied,  with  a  smile : 

"  We  shall  know  when  Donald  receives  the 
answers  to  the  letters  he  sent  to  the  Home  in 
Oakland  and  to  the  dressmaker." 

As  Marjorie  concluded  her  remarks  on  the 
story  of  Undine,  she  glanced  critically  at  her 
friend's  work. 

"You  are  hemming  much  better  to-day,"  she 


TRYING  TO  REMEMBER      31 

said  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction;  "  I  am  sure  Mother 
will  say  you  have  improved." 

Undine's  face  brightened. 

"  I  hope  she  will  —  oh,  I  do  hope  so !  "  she 
said  eagerly.  "  She  is  so  dear,  and  I  want  to 
please  her  so  much,  but  I'm  afraid  I'm  very 
stupid." 

"  You  are  not  stupid  at  all,"  declared  Mar- 
jorie  loyally.  "  You  are  much  cleverer  than  I 
am  about  lots  of  things.  It  isn't  your  fault  if 
you've  never  been  taught  to  sew." 

"  There  wasn't  any  time  to  learn  at  Miss 
Brent's,"  said  Undine;  "  there  were  always  such 
a  lot  of  errands,  and  so  many  parcels  to  be  car- 
ried home.  I  suppose  if  I  had  learned  before  the 
earthquake  I  shouldn't  remember  now." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie  thoughtfully; 
"  you  must  have  learned  to  read,  and  you  haven't 
forgotten  that." 

"  No,  nor  to  write  either.  It's  very  queer 
about  the  things  I  remember  and  those  I  don't. 
Mr.  Jackson  used  to  asked  me  a  great  many  ques- 
tions, and  he  wrote  down  some  of  the  things  I 
told  him,  to  show  to  a  society  he  belonged  to. 
Once  a  very  funny  thing  happened.  I  had  taken 
a  dress  home  to  a  lady,  and  was  waiting  in  the 
hall  while  she  tried  it  on,  to  see  if  it  had  to  go 


32    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

back  for  any  alterations.  There  were  some  peo- 
ple in  the  parlor  talking  French.  I  don't  know 
how  I  knew  it  was  French,  but  I  did,  and  I  under- 
stood almost  everything  they  said.  I  told  Mr. 
Jackson,  and  he  was  so  interested.  He  made  me 
tell  Miss  Brent,  too,  and  he  wanted  her  to  put  an- 
other advertisement  in  the  newspapers,  but  she 
said  she  hadn't  any  money  to  waste  in  advertis- 
ing, and  that  if  I  had  any  relatives  they  would 
have  come  for  me  long  ago." 

"  It's  the  most  interesting  thing  I  ever  heard  of 
in  my  life,"  declared  Marjorie.  "  Aunt  Jessie 
says  she  is  sure  your  friends  must  have  been  edu- 
cated people,  because  you  never  make  mistakes 
in  grammar." 

Undine  looked  pleased. 

"  I'm  glad  your  aunt  thinks  that,"  she  said. 
"  I  should  hate  to  talk  in  the  way  some  of  the 
girls  at  Miss  Brent's  did.  They  used  to  laugh  at 
me  and  call  me  stuck  up,  but  I  didn't  want  to  be 
like  them.  I  hate  rough  girls.  I  dream  about 
my  mother  sometimes,  and  I  know  she  would  be 
sorry  to  have  me  grow  up  rough  and  coarse." 

"  It  seems  so  strange  that  you  can't  even  re- 
member your  mother,"  said  Marjorie,  reflectively. 
"  I  can't  imagine  that  anything  could  possibly 


TRYING  TO  REMEMBER      33 

happen  to  me  that  would  make  me  forget 
Mother." 

A  shadow  crept  into  Undine's  face,  and  the 
troubled,  frightened  look  came  back  into  her 
eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  wearily;  "I  don't 
know  anything.  Oh,  Marjorie,  it  frightens  me  so 
sometimes." 

There  was  a  quiver  in  the  girl's  voice,  and 
kind-hearted  Marjorie  laid  a  protecting  hand  on 
hers. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  soothingly ;  "  don't 
think  any  more  about  it  than  you  can  help. 
Perhaps  it  will  all  come  back  some  time;  Father 
thinks  it  will.  He  thinks  the  stone,  or  whatever 
it  was,  that  fell  on  you,  must  have  given  your 
brain  a  terrible  shock.  He  says  he  heard  of  a 
man  once  who  was  very  badly  hurt  in  a  railroad 
accident,  and  couldn't  remember  anything  for  a 
long  time.  His  family  thought  he  must  be  dead, 
but  suddenly  his  memory  all  came  back  to  him, 
and  he  went  home,  and  gave  them  a  great  sur- 
prise. Perhaps  it  will  be  like  that  with  you  some 
day." 

"  Miss  Brent  thinks  all  my  people  must  have 
been  killed  in  the  earthquake,"  said  Undine,  with 


34    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

a  sigh.  "  That  might  be  the  reason  why  nobody 
ever  came  to  look  for  me.  They  say  more  peo- 
ple were  killed  than  any  one  knew  about.  If  I 
could  only  remember  the  very  least  thing  that 
happened  before,  but  I  can't;  it's  just  as  if  T 
came  alive  for  the  first  time  that  day  in  the  hos- 
pital. Oh,  here  comes  your  aunt ;  I'll  go  and  help 
her  with  her  chair."  And  dropping  her  towel 
on  the  floor  of  the  porch,  Undine  darted  into  the 
house,  whence  she  returned  in  a  moment,  care- 
fully guiding  Miss  Graham's  wheeled  chair  over 
the  door-sill. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  Miss  Graham  said,  kindly. 
"  You  are  a  very  helpful  little  girl,  but  when  you 
are  as  accustomed  to  me  and  my  chair  as  Mar- 
jorie  is,  you  will  realize  that  I  can  manage  very 
well.  I  heard  your  voices,  and  thought  I  would 
come  out  here  for  a  little  while;  it's  so  much 
cooler  than  in  the  house." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  get  your  sewing,  or  your 
book,  or  something?  "  inquired  Undine,  hovering 
solicitously  over  the  invalid. 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  have  been  sewing  all  the 
afternoon;  helping  Mrs.  Graham  with  the  new 
parlor  curtains,  and  I'm  going  to  be  lazy  for  a 
little  while.  I  am  afraid  you  dropped  your  own 
sewing,  in  your  anxiety  to  help  me." 


TRYING  TO  REMEMBER      35 

Undine  blushed  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the 
discarded  towel. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  very  careless/'  she  said  apolo- 
getically; "  Miss  Brent  said  I  was,  but  I  love  to 
wait  on  people." 

Miss  Graham  laughed,  and  she  had  such  a 
merry,  contagious  laugh  that  she  was  speedily 
joined  by  Marjorie,  and  even  Undine  herself. 

"  It  is  very  pleasant  to  be  waited  on,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  am  sure  you  would  make  a  capital  nurse, 
Undine." 

Undine  looked  pleased. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  nurse,"  she  said.  "  I 
used  to  do  lots  of  things  for  Mr.  Jackson,  and  he 
liked  to  have  me.  I  wish  I  could  wait  on  you, 
because  then  I  should  feel  that  I  was  of  some 
use,  and  that  you  weren't  just  keeping  me  because 
you  were  sorry  for  me." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  wist  fulness  in  Un- 
dine's tone,  and  Miss  Graham  was  touched. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sure 
there  are  many  ways  in  which  you  can  make 
yourself  useful  if  you  stay  with  us.  You  will 
soon  learn  to  be  a  great  help  to  Mrs.  Graham,  and 
there  will  be  many  little  things  you  can  do  for  me 
as  well." 

Marjorie  gave  her  aunt  a  grateful  glance,  and 


36    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Undine  looked  relieved.  At  that  moment  the 
afternoon  stillness  was  broken  by  a  sound  of  dis- 
tant hoof-beats,  and  a  clear  tenor  voice  singing: 

" '  On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  old  flotilla  lay." 

"  It's  Jim  coming  with  the  mail,''  cried  Mar- 
jorie  joyfully;  "I  should  know  his  voice  any- 
where, and  that's  his  favorite  song.  Oh,  I  won- 
der if  there  will  be  an  answer  to  Father's  letter 
to  Miss  Brent.     What's  the  matter,  Undine?  " 

For  Undine,  who  was  still  standing  by  Miss 
Graham's  chair,  had  suddenly  grown  pale,  and  a 
strange,  startled  expression  had  come  into  her 
face. 

"  Who's  Jim?  "  she  demanded  sharply. 

"  Only  one  of  Father's  men.  He  used  to  be  a 
cow-puncher  in  Texas.  I  think  you  must  have 
seen  him;  he's  about  the  ranch  a  good  deal." 

The  hoof-beats  were  drawing  nearer,  and  the 
rider  had  begun  another  verse  of  his  song. 

"'Er  petticoat  was  yaller, 

An'  'er  little  cap  was  green, 
An'  'er  name  was  Supy  Yawler, 
Jes'  the  same  as  Thebaw's  queen.' " 

"  I  know  that  song,"  cried  Undine  excitedly, 
clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  and  she  began 
reciting  in  a  dreamy,  far-away  voice : 


TRYING  TO  REMEMBER      37 

"'An'  I  see  'er  first  a  smokin' 
Of  a  whackin'  big  sheroot, 
An'  wastin'  Christian  kisses 
On  a  'eathen  idol's  foot/ 

"  Somebody  used  to  sing  it.  Who  was  it?  Oh, 
tell  me  quick ;  I  must  remember,  I  must,  I  must !  " 

She  turned  imploringly  to  Miss  Graham  and 
Marjorie,  but  the  two  blank,  puzzled  faces  gave 
her  no  help,  and  with  a  low  cry,  the  poor  child 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  began  to 
sob.  Marjorie's  kind  arms  were  round  her 
friend  in  a  moment,  but  it  was  no  easy  task  to 
stem  the  torrent  of  Undine's  grief. 

"  Oh,  help  me  to  remember,  please,  please  do 
help  me !  "  she  wailed,  between  hysterical  sobs 
and  gasps.  "  I  almost  remembered,  and  now  it's 
all  gone  again.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  —  what  shall 
I  do?" 

"  You'll  remember  it  all  some  time,  dear,  I 
know  you  will,"  soothed  Marjorie,  crying  herself 
from  pure  sympathy.  "  Do  try  not  to  mind  quite 
so  much,  Undine.  I  know  it  must  be  terrible, 
but  we're  all  so  sorry  for  you,  and  we'll  try  to 
make  you  happy,  indeed  we  will." 

By  this  time  horse  and  rider  had  reached  the 
ranch  house,  and  Jim  Hathaway,  a  freckled,  red- 
haired  youth,  had  sprung  to  the  ground,  and  was 
regarding  the  scene  in  undisguised  astonishment. 


38     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Have  you  brought  us  any  letters  to-day, 
Jim?"  Miss  Graham  asked,  by  way  of  relieving 
the  situation. 

"  Yes,  m' ;  there's  two  for  Mr.  Graham,  and 
some  newspapers,  and  a  magazine." 

"  Ask  him  where  he  learned  that  song,"  whis- 
pered Undine  to  Marjorie.  She  was  still  trem- 
bling, and  seemed  very  much  agitated. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  that  song  you  were 
singing  just  now,  Jim?"  Marjorie  inquired,  ea- 
gerly ;  "  the  one  about  the  *  Road  to  Mandalay,' 
you  know  ?  " 

Jim  looked  rather  vague. 

"  Blessed  if  I  remember,"  he  said.  "  I  picked 
it  up  somewhere,  but  I  couldn't  rightly  say  where 
it  was." 

"Won't  you  please  try  to  remember?"  said 
Undine,  lifting  her  tear-stained  face  from  Mar- 
jorie's  shoulder.  "  I  want  very  much  to  know. 
I  am  trying  to  remember  something  about  it,  and 
if  you  could  tell  me  where  you  learned  it  it  might 
help  me." 

Jim  stared  at  her  rather  stupidly ;  then  his  face 
brightened. 

"  I  guess  I  do  remember,  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,"  he  said  slowly.  "  It  was  in  Texas. 
There  was  an  English  chap  there,  who  was  for- 


TRYING  TO  REMEMBER      39 

ever  singing  it.  I  picked  it  up  from  him.  There 
were  a  lot  of  verses  to  it  but  I  don't  know  'em 
all." 

Undine  shook  her  head  hopelessly. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said;  "  I  don't  believe  I  was 
ever  in  Texas."  And  without  another  word,  she 
turned  and  went  into  the  house. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  later  when  Mrs. 
Graham  knocked  softly  at  the  door  of  the  little 
room  which  had  been  given  to  the  strange  guest. 
She  waited  a  moment,  and  then,  receiving  no  an- 
swer, turned  the  handle  and  went  in.  Undine 
was  lying  on  the  bed,  her  face  buried  in  the  pil- 
low. She  was  so  still  that  Mrs.  Graham  thought 
she  must  be  asleep,  and  was  turning  away  again 
when  there  was  a  slight  movement  on  the  bed, 
and  with  a  long  sigh,  the  girl  lifted  her  head. 

At  sight  of  her  hostess,  Undine  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  began  pushing  the  tumbled  hair  back 
from  her  eyes.  She  was  very  white,  and  there 
was  a  drawn,  suffering  look  on  her  face,  which 
went  to  Mrs.  Graham's  motherly  heart. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Undine,  humbly. 
"  I'm  afraid  you  must  all  think  me  very  silly  and 
troublesome.  I  didn't  mean  to  make  a  fuss,  but 
when  I  heard  that  boy  singing  '  Mandalay '  it 
seemed  for  just  a  minute  as  if  I  were  going  to  re- 


40     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

member  something*,  and  then  it  was  all  gone 
again.  I  thought  that  perhaps  if  I  lay  very  still 
with  my  eyes  shut  tight,  and  thought  as  hard  as  I 
could,  it  might  come  again,  but  it  didn't." 

"  Sit  down,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  kindly, 
and  seating  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  she 
drew  Undine  down  beside  her.  "  Does  your 
head  ache  ?  " 

"  It  aches  dreadfully,"  confessed  Undine, 
pressing  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  "  It  always 
does  when  I  try  very  hard  to  remember." 

"  I  was  afraid  so.  It  isn't  good  for  you  to  try 
to  remember  in  this  way;  it  won't  help  things  at 
all,  and  may  make  them  much  worse.  You  must 
promise  me  not  to  try  to  think  so  hard  again. 
When  your  memory  comes  back  it  will  come  natu- 
rally, and  without  any  forcing.  Now  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about  something  quite  different.  Mr. 
Graham  has  had  a  letter  from  the  '  Home  For 
The  Friendless'  at  Oakland,  and  another  from 
your  friend  Miss  Brent,  or  Mrs.  Rogers,  as  I 
believe  she  is  now." 

"  What  did  they  say  ?  "  inquired  Undine,  lan- 
guidly. She  seemed  too  much  exhausted  to  take 
much  interest  in  letters. 

"  Mrs.  Rogers  spoke  kindly  of  you,  and  seemed 
pleased  to  know  where  you  are.     Her  sister  had 


TRYING  TO  REMEMBER      41 

telegraphed  her  of  your  disappearance.  She  said 
she  hoped  you  would  find  a  good  home,  for  she 
was  afraid  nothing  would  induce  Mrs.  Hicks  to 
take  you  back.  They  remembered  you  at  the 
*  Home/  too,  and  are  willing  to  have  you  there 
again  if  we  will  pay  your  expenses  back  to  Cali- 
fornia." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  back  there/'  protested 
Undine,  lifting  her  head,  and  speaking  more  like 
her  old  self.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Graham,  must  I  go? 
Can't  I  stay  here  ?  I'll  do  anything  you  want  me 
to,  and  I  can  work  hard,  just  wait  and  see  if  I 
can't." 

Mrs.  Graham  smiled  as  she  glanced  at  the  soft 
little  hands,  which  did  not  look  as  though  their 
owner  were  capable  of  much  hard  work. 

"  That  is  just  what  we  have  been  talking 
about,"  she  said.  "  I  should  be  glad  of  a  little 
extra  help  in  the  house ;  Juanita  isn't  as  young  as 
she  once  was,  and  I  want  to  give  Marjorie  a  little 
more  time  for  study.  So  if  you  think  you  would 
really  care  to  stay  with  us,  and  are  willing  to 
work  for  small  wages  — " 

"  Wages !  "  cried  Undine  indignantly;  "  I  don't 
want  any  money;  I  only  want  to  stay  with  you, 
and  work  for  my  board.  You're  all  so  kind,  and 
.  .  .  and  I  think  you  must  be  more  like  the  peo- 


42     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

pie  I  used  to  live  with  than  Miss  Brent  and  Mrs. 
Hicks  were.     Oh,  if  I  could  only  remember!" 

"  There,  there,  we  won't  talk  any  more  about 
remembering  just  now,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham cheerfully.  "  You  shall  stay  with  us,  at 
least  for  the  present,  and  who  knows  what  may 
happen  in  the  future.  Now  lie  down  again,  and 
try  to  take  a  nap  before  supper.  You  look  very 
tired,  and  a  good  sleep  will  do  your  head  more 
good  than  anything  else."  And  yielding  to  a 
sudden  impulse,  Mrs.  Graham  stooped  and  kissed 
the  flushed  face  on  the  pillow,  almost  as  tenderly 
as  if  this  strange,  friendless  little  waif  had  been 
her  own  Marjorie. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST 

"  Of  all  the  different  kinds  of  housework,  I 
think  pickling  is  the  most  disagreeable !  " 

Marjorie  made  this  remark  as  she  came  into 
her  aunt's  room  one  glorious  October  afternoon. 
Miss  Graham's  room  was  the  prettiest  and  most 
luxurious  in  the  ranch  house.  Every  comfort 
which  limited  income  and  inaccessible  surround- 
ings could  afford  had  been  procured  for  the  in- 
valid, and  to  Marjorie,  after  a  hard  day's  work 
of  helping  her  mother  and  Juanita  in  the  yearly 
pickling,  it  seemed  a  very  haven  of  rest  and  com- 
fort. Miss  Graham  herself,  in  a  pretty  pink 
wrapper,  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  while  Undine 
read  aloud  to  her.  She  was  a  very  different  Un- 
dine from  the  pale,  timid  girl  of  two  months  be- 
fore. The  thin  cheeks  had  filled  out  wonderfully, 
and  the  big  brown  eyes  had  almost  entirely  lost 
their  expression  of  frightened  bewilderment,  for 
Undine  had  found  her  place  in  the  household  and 
was  happy.     I  have  my  doubts  as  to  whether  Un- 

43 


44     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

dine  would  have  proved  of  great  use  in  the  kit- 
chen, her  knowledge  of  any  kind  of  housework 
being  decidedly  limited,  but  before  she  had  been 
in  her  new  home  a  fortnight  Miss  Graham  was 
taken  ill.  It  was  not  a  serious  illness,  though  a 
tedious  and  painful  one,  and  almost  from  the  first 
moment  Undine  had  established  herself  as  nurse. 
Her  devotion  was  touching ;  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  she  could  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  invalid's 
bedside  even  for  the  necessary  rest  and  exercise, 
and  she  would  gladly  have  worked  night  and  day 
in  the  service  of  gentle  Miss  Graham,  who  al- 
most unconsciously  grew  to  love  the  girl,  and  to 
depend  upon  her  more  than  she  would  have  be- 
lieved possible  in  so  short  a  time. 

Now  Miss  Graham  was  better,  and  the  task  of 
nursing  was  almost  at  an  end,  but  she  was  still 
weak,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  were  thankful 
for  the  willing  service  of  the  girl  whom  they  had 
taken  into  their  home  on  account  of  her  friend- 
less condition  and  her  big  honest  brown  eyes. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  two  people  have 
been  spared  to-day,"  continued  Marjorie,  throw- 
ing herself  wearily  into  the  rocking-chair. 
"  Thank  goodness,  they're  all  done,  and  we  shall 
have  pickles  enough  to  last  another  year." 

"  We  haven't  been  spared  the  smell,"  said  Miss 


A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST     45 

Graham,  laughing.  "  I  really  felt  at  one  time  to- 
day that  I  would  gladly  forego  pickles  for  the 
rest  of  my  life." 

"  What  have  you  been  reading?  "  Marjorie  in- 
quired, with  a  glance  at  the  book  Undine  had  put 
down  on  her  entrance. 

"  '  Lorna  Doone.'  We  have  had  a  delightful 
afternoon.  It  is  such  a  charming  story,  and  Un- 
dine reads  aloud  remarkably  well." 

Marjorie  glanced  out  of  the  window,  at  the 
brilliant  autumn  sunshine. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  for  a  ride,  to  get  the  smell  of 
the  pickles  out  of  my  nostrils,"  she  said. 
"  Mother  says  she  won't  need  me  any  more  to- 
day." 

"  That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Miss  Graham  ap- 
provingly, "  and  suppose  you  take  Undine  with 
you?  She  has  been  indoors  all  day;  the  fresh 
air  will  do  her  good." 

"All  right,"  assented  Marjorie,  well  pleased. 
"  Come  along,  Undine,"  she  added,  rising;  "  we'll 
have  time  for  a  good  gallop  before  supper." 

Undine  hesitated. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  can  spare  me?  "  she  asked, 
with  an  anxious  glance  at  the  pale  face  on  the  pil- 
low. 

"  Quite  sure,  dear.     I  shall  not  need  anything, 


46    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

and  even  if  I  should  Mrs.  Graham  and  Juanita 
are  both  within  call.  So  run  along,  you  conscien- 
tious little  nurse,  and  enjoy  yourself  for  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon." 

Undine  blushed  with  pleasure  at  the  compli- 
ment, and  five  minutes  later  she  and  Marjorie 
were  on  their  way  to  the  stables. 

It  was  one  of  those  glorious  autumn  days,  when 
the  air  is  like  a  tonic,  and  every  object  stands 
out  with  almost  startling  clearness. 

"  The  mountains  look  so  near  to-day,  it  seems 
almost  as  if  we  might  ride  to  them,  doesn't  it?  " 
remarked  Undine,  as  the  two  girls  trotted  out  of 
the  ranch  gates  on  their  ponies ;  Undine  sitting  as 
straight,  and  riding  with  almost  as  much  ease  as 
Marjorie  herself. 

"  They  are  nearly  a  hundred  miles  away,"  said 
Marjorie,  with  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  the 
great  snow-tipped  mountains,  which  certainly  did 
look  very  near  in  that  wonderful  atmosphere. 
"  We  could  go  there,  though,  if  we  had  an  auto- 
mobile. What  wonderful  things  automobiles 
must  be." 

"  I  suppose  they  are  —  there  were  plenty  of 
them  in  California  —  but  nothing  could  be 
half  as  nice  as  a  gallop  in  this  wonderful  air.  A 
pony  like  this  is  worth  all  the  automobiles  in  San 


A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST     47 

Francisco."  And  Undine  bestowed  an  affection- 
ate pat  on  the  neck  of  the  pretty  brown  horse  she 
was  riding. 

"  I  believe  you  love  riding  as  much  as  I  do," 
said  Marjorie,  sympathetically.  "  I  wonder 
where  you  learned  to  ride.  I  shall  never  for- 
get how  astonished  Father  and  I  were  that  first 
day,  when  we  made  you  get  on  a  pony  just  for 
fun,  and  you  took  the  reins,  and  started  off  as  if 
you  had  been  accustomed  to  riding  every  day 
of  your  life." 

There  was  a  trace  of  the  old  shadow  in  Un- 
dine's face  as  she  answered : 

"  It's  all  very  strange,  and  I  can't  explain  it, 
but  it  seemed  quite  natural,  and  as  if  I  had  done 
it  often  before.  Even  when  the  pony  jumped, 
and  your  father  thought  I  would  be  frightened,  I 
wasn't.  I  seemed  to  know  just  what  to  do, 
though  I  couldn't  tell  how  I  knew." 

"  Perhaps  you  lived  on  a  ranch  once,"  Mar- 
jorie suggested.     "  That  would  explain  it." 

Undine  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said,  "  for  when  I  first 
came  here  it  was  all  quite  strange,  and  though 
I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  of  horses,  I'm  horribly  afraid 
of  cows,  A  girl  who  had  lived  long  on  a  ranch 
couldn't  be  afraid  of  cows,  could  she?" 


48    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Marjorie  assented,  and  the  two  girls  rode  on  in 
silence  for  several  minutes.  Then  Undine  spoke 
again. 

"  There's  another  curious  thing  that  I  haven't 
told  you.  That  book  I'm  reading  to  your  aunt — 
'  Lorna  Doone,'  you  know  —  I'm  sure  I've  read 
it  before.  I  know  what  is  going  to  happen  in 
every  chapter." 

Marjorie  looked  much  interested. 

"  Have  you  told  Aunt  Jessie  about  it  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  No,  I  was  afraid  it  might  bother  her.  I 
don't  think  she  or  your  mother  like  to  have  me 
talk  about  the  things  I  remember." 

"  That's  only  because  they're  afraid  you  will 
worry  and  make  yourself  ill,"  Marjorie  ex- 
plained. "  You  remember  what  a  dreadful  head- 
ache you  had  the  day  you  heard  Jim  singing 
'  Mandalay/  They're  really  tremendously  inter- 
ested." 

"  Are  they  ? "  said  Undine,  looking  pleased. 
u  I  was  afraid  they  thought  me  silly.  At  first  I 
know  they  thought  I  was  a  fraud,  and  I'm  sure  I 
don't  blame  them.  How  could  any  one  believe 
such  a  queer  story?  And  yet  it's  all  true,  every 
word." 

"  They  believe  it  now,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mar- 


A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST     49 

jorie,  "  and  they're  just  as  much  interested  as  I 
am.  Mother  says  she  can't  help  worrying  when 
she  thinks  of  your  friends,  and  how  they  may  be 
grieving  for  you." 

"  Miss  Brent  said  she  didn't  believe  I  had  any 
friends  or  they  would  have  come  to  look  for  me," 
said  Undine  sadly. 

"  But  you  must  have  belonged  to  somebody," 
persisted  Marjorie,  "  and  it  isn't  likely  all  your 
family  were  killed  in  the  earthquake,  even  if  some 
of  them  were.  Then  you  do  remember  some 
things  —  there  was  the  person  who  sang  '  Man- 
dalay.' " 

"  But  I  can't  remember  who  it  was ;  I  only 
know  there  was  somebody  who  used  to  sing  it.  I 
almost  remembered  for  a  minute  that  day,  but  it 
was  gone  in  a  flash,  and  it  has  never  come  back 
since." 

"  Well,  don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  worry- 
ing things  this  glorious  afternoon,"  broke  in  Mar- 
jorie, noticing  the  troubled  sound  in  her  friend's 
voice.  "  Let's  have  a  good  gallop,  and  forget 
everything  else.     Come  along,  Roland." 

Away  flew  Roland,  admonished  by  a  gentle 
tap  from  his  mistress,  and  he  was  followed  closely 
by  Undine's  pony.  The  next  half  hour  was  one 
of    unalloyed    enjoyment    to    both    girls.     The 


$o    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

quick  motion,  the  bright  sunshine,  the  keen  air,  all 
conspired  to  banish  thoughts  of  care  or  perplex- 
ity from  Undine's  mind,  and  to  bring  the  bright 
color  into  her  cheeks.  Marjorie,  glancing  over 
her  shoulder  at  her  friend,  suddenly  realized  what 
a  very  pretty  girl  Undine  was.  Even  the  khaki 
skirt  and  the  sombrero,  counterparts  of  Mar- 
j  one's  own,  could  not  detract  from  her  beauty, 
and  she  sat  on  her  pony  with  as  much  grace  as 
any  lady  in  the  land. 

"  There !  wasn't  that  great  ?  "  exclaimed  Mar- 
jorie, drawing  Roland  in  at  last,  and  turning  to 
her  friend,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  ever  had  a  finer  gallop  than  that  in  your 
life." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did,"  agreed  Undine, 
straightening  her  sombrero,  and  pushing  back  the 
tumbled  hair  from  her  eyes.  "  Must  we  go  back 
now?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so.  Father  and  Mother  don't 
like  to  have  me  stay  out  after  sunset.  Look  at 
the  mountains;  they  seem  just  as  near  as  ever, 
don't  they?  And  yet  we've  been  riding  straight 
away  from  them  all  the  time." 

"  Isn't  it  still  ?  "  whispered  Undine,  with  a  deep 
breath.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  whisper,  though 
I  don't  know  why.     I  don't  suppose  there's  an- 


A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST     51 

other  living  soul  within  miles  of  us,  and  yet  I'm 
not  the  least  bit  afraid." 

"  There  is,  though,"  exclaimed  Marjorie,  in 
sudden  astonishment.  "  Look  at  that  man. 
Where  can  he  be  going?  "  And  she  pointed  with 
her  whip-handle  to  a  solitary  figure,  carrying  a 
suit-case,  which  was  slowly  advancing  in  their  di- 
rection. "  He  isn't  an  Indian  or  a  Mexican, 
either,"  she  added  eagerly;  "he's  a  white  man, 
and  he  must  be  on  his  way  to  the  ranch.  No- 
body who  isn't  coming  to  the  ranch  ever  takes 
this  road." 

"  Perhaps  he's  a  tramp,"  suggested  Undine 
nervously.     "We'd  better  hurry  home." 

But  Marjorie  scorned  the  suggestion. 

"  Nonsense,"  she  said  indignantly.  "  The  idea 
of  wanting  to  run  away!  Besides,  we  can't; 
he's  making  signs  to  us  to  wait  for  him.  He 
wants  to  speak  to  us." 

Undine  did  not  feel  at  all  sure  of  the  wisdom 
of  this  proceeding,  but  there  seemed  nothing  else 
to  do,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  stranger,  who 
had  quickened  his  pace  at  sight  of  the  two  girls, 
was  within  speaking  distance.  He  was  plenti- 
fully besprinkled  with  dust,  and  was  looking  de- 
cidedly warm  and  tired,  but  his  appearance  and 
manner  were  those  of  a  gentleman.  ' 


52    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Excuse  me  for  detaining  you,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically, "  but  can  you  tell  me  how  far  I  am 
from  Mr.  Donald  Graham's  ranch  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  must  be  coming  to  the  ranch," 
said  Marjorie,  with  a  friendly  smile;  "  it's  about 
five  miles  from  here." 

"  Five  miles,"  repeated  the  stranger  in  a  tone 
of  dismay,  and  he  set  down  the  heavy  suit-case 
he  was  carrying,  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  his 
handkerchief. 

"Have  you  been  walking  far?"  Marjorie  in- 
quired sympathetically. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  must  have  walked  at  least  five 
miles  already.  My  team  broke  down,  one  of  the 
wheels  came  off,  and  the  man  who  was  driving 
me  out  to  the  ranch  seemed  to  think  the  only 
thing  to  be  done  was  to  leave  the  wagon  with  my 
trunk  on  it  by  the  roadside  while  he  returned  to 
town  on  horseback,  to  get  another  trap.  He  ad- 
vised me  to  walk  on,  but  I  had  no  idea  of  the  dis- 
tance. Will  you  please  tell  me  if  this  is  the 
shortest  way  to  the  ranch  ?  " 

"  It's  the  only  way,"  said  Marjorie,  smiling, 
and  thinking  that  this  tall,  broad-shouldered  man 
must  certainly  be  "  a  tenderfoot."  Her  own 
father  thought  nothing  of  a  ten-mile  tramp  over 
the  prairie. 


A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST     53 

"  Then  I  suppose  there  is  no  help  for  it,  but 
five  miles  —  are  you  sure  it's  as  much  as  five 
miles?" 

Marjorie  nodded;  she  was  trying  to  think  of 
some  way  of  helping  the  stranger  out  of  his  dif- 
ficulty. But  it  was  finally  he  himself  who  put 
into  words  the  very  suggestion  she  was  going  to 
make. 

"  I  wonder  if  by  any  chance  you  young  ladies 
happen  to  be  going  as  far  as  the  ranch,"  he  said, 
with  a  rather  curious  glance  at  the  two  figures, 
sitting  astride  their  ponies. 

"  We're  going  straight  there  now,"  said  Mar- 
jorie, eagerly,  "  and  if  you  don't  mind  waiting, 
I'll  ask  Father  to  send  a  horse  for  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  do  you  think  he  could 
possibly  send  a  wagon  as  well?  I  am  not  much 
of  a  horseman." 

This  certainly  was  a  "  tenderfoot,"  and  no  mis- 
take, but  Marjorie  was  too  polite  to  laugh. 

"  All  right,"  she  said,  "  I'll  see  alDout  it,  but 
it  will  take  longer  to  wait  for  a  team  to  be 
hitched  up." 

"That  can't  be  helped.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not 
equal  to  another  five  miles  on  foot.  Do  you  know 
Mr.  Graham?" 

Marjorie  laughed. 


54    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  she  said  in  her  frank, 
friendly  way;  "  he's  my  father." 

"  Your  father ! "  repeated  the  gentleman,  his 
face  lighting  up ;  "  why,  you  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  you  are  little  Marjorie?  " 

"  I'm  Marjorie  Graham,  but  I'm  not  very  lit- 
tle. I'm  five  feet,  three,  and  I  was  fourteen  last 
March." 

"  Well,  you  were  about  two  feet,  three  when 
I  last  saw  you,"  said  the  gentleman,  smiling;  "  so 
you  must  forgive  me  for  not  recognizing  you  at 
once.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  your  uncle  Henry 
Carleton?" 

With  a  joyous  exclamation,  impulsive  Mar- 
jorie sprang  from  her  pony  and  leaving  the  faith- 
ful Roland  to  his  own  devices,  rushed  to  her 
uncle's  side,  holding  out  both  hands. 

"Of  course  I  have!"  she  cried,  lifting  her 
radiant  face  for  the  expected  kiss.  "  Oh,  Uncle 
Henry,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  to  see  us  at  last ; 
Mother  will  be  so  happy." 

Although  somewhat  surprised  by  the  warmth 
of  this  greeting,  Mr.  Carleton  was  not  at  all  dis- 
pleased. Indeed,  he  was  smiling  very  pleasantly 
by  the  time  he  had  given  his  niece  the  kiss  she 
was  evidently  expecting,  and  his  face  softened  as 
he  regarded  her  more  attentively. 


d  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST     55 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  you,  Marjorie,"  he 
said,  "  for  you  are  very  like  your  mother." 

Marjorie  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said;  "I'd  rather  look  like 
Mother  than  any  one  else.     Is  Elsie  with  you?,, 

"  Elsie  ?  You  know  about  my  little  girl,  too, 
then?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed;  I  know  she  is  just  about  my 
age.  Mother  has  a  photograph  of  her,  taken 
when  she  was  a  baby,  and  I've  always  wished  I 
could  see  her.  Having  a  cousin  of  one's  own 
age  must  be  almost  as  good  as  having  a  sister. 
Oh,  I  do  hope  she's  coming  to  the  ranch !  " 

Mr.  Carleton  shook  his  head. 

"  Elsie  and  her  mother  were  with  me,  but  they 
have  gone  back  to  New  York.  We  have  been 
through  the  Canadian  Rockies  and  the  Yosemite 
together,  and  yesterday  we  stopped  at  the  Grand 
Canyon.  Your  aunt  and  cousin  have  gone  on  in 
the  train,  but  I  thought  I  would  like  a  few  days 
with  your  mother,  so  I  got  off  at  the  nearest  sta- 
tion to  the  ranch,  and  was  driving  out.  I  sup- 
pose I  should  have  written,  but  I  thought  I  would 
rather  enjoy  giving  your  mother  a  surprise.  I 
hope  I  sha'n't  be  in  the  way." 

"  No,  indeed,  you  won't,"  declared  Marjorie 
heartily.     "  Mother  and  Father  will  be  delighted, 


56    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

and  so  will  Aunt  Jessie.  We  so  seldom  have 
visitors,  and  it's  such  a  treat,  but  I'm  dreadfully 
sorry  Aunt  Julia  and  Elsie  aren't  coming,  too. 
What  a  lucky  girl  Elsie  is  to  have  seen  all  those 
wonderful  places!  Father  is  going  to  take 
Mother  and  me  to  the  Canyon  some  day  when  he 
can  afford  it.  But  I  was  so  glad  to  see  you  that 
I  forgot  to  introduce  my  friend.  Undine,  this 
is  my  uncle,  Mr.  Carleton. 

"  Uncle  Henry,  this  is  my  friend,  Miss  Undine 
s — we  don't  know  her  other  name." 

Undine  —  who  had  been  watching  proceed- 
ings with  interest  —  smiled  shyly,  and  held  out 
her  hand.  She  had  also  dismounted  from  her 
pony,  and  was  holding  him  by  the  bridle. 

"  Undine,"  repeated  Mr.  Carleton,  looking 
amused,  as  he  took  the  girl's  hand,  and  regarded 
her  curiously;  "that  is  a  rather  unusual  name, 
isn't  it?" 

Undine  blushed,  and  looked  embarrassed,  and 
Marjorie  hastened  to  explain. 

"  It  isn't  her  real  name,  but  she  didn't  like  be- 
ing called  Sally,  so  we  thought  we  would  call  her 
Undine  until  she  remembers  what  her  name  is. 
It's  a  very  interesting  story,  Uncle  Henry,  but  I 
won't  stop  to  tell  it  now,  for  it's  getting  late,  and 
I  must  hurry  home  as  fast  as  I  can,  and  have 


A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  EAST     57 

Father  send  a  team  for  you.  I  wish  you  could 
ride  my  pony;  I  wouldn't  mind  walking  the  five 
miles  a  bit." 

"That's  a  nice  little  girl  of  Susie's,"  Mr. 
Carleton  remarked  to  himself,  as  the  ponies  and 
their  riders  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 
"  She  has  her  mother's  eyes  and  friendly  ways, 
but  —  well,  perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  I  couldn't 
persuade  Julia  to  stop  over  at  the  ranch.  I  doubt 
if  Marjorie  and  Elsie  would  hit  it  off  very  well 
together." 


CHAPTER  V 


UNCLE    HENRY'S   PROPOSITION 


Mr.  Carleton  received  a  hearty  welcome  at 
the  ranch.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  were  not  the 
sort  of  people  to  remember  old  grievances ;  Mrs. 
Graham  was  honestly  glad  to  see  her  brother,  and 
they  were  both  quite  willing  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones.  So  the  visitor  found  the  meeting  with 
his  sister  and  her  husband  a  much  less  embarrass- 
ing one  than  he  had  expected,  and  the  days  at 
the  ranch  passed  so  pleasantly  that  he  was  easily 
persuaded  to  prolong  his  stay  from  a  day  or  two 
to  a  week,  and  then  to  a  fortnight.  He  and  his 
sister  had  more  than  one  long  confidential  talk, 
and  although  no  word  of  complaint  was  uttered, 
Mr.  Carleton  was  clever  enough  to  read  between 
the  lines,  and  it  was  after  one  of  these  talks  that 
he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  wife  in  New  York,  for  an 
answer  to  which  he  was  anxiously  waiting. 

It  was  on  an  afternoon  in  the  second  week  of 
his  visit  that  Mr.  Carleton  sauntered  out  on  to 
the  porch,  to  find  Marjorie  alone,  and  busily  en- 
gaged in  trimming  a  hat. 

58 


A  PROPOSITION.  59 

"Where  are  all  the  others?"  he  inquired, 
throwing  himself  rather  wearily  into  the  rocker 
by  her  side.  "  I've  been  writing  letters  all  the 
afternoon,  and  haven't  heard  a  sound  in  the 
house." 

"  They  are  all  out,"  said  Marjorie.  "  Father 
wanted  Mother  to  see  some  colts  he  is  thinking 
of  buying,  and  Aunt  Jessie  has  gone  with  them, 
for  the  sake  of  the  drive.  Undine  has  gone, 
too." 

"  And  how  does  it  happen  that  you  were  left 
behind,  like  Cinderella.  Wasn't  there  room  in 
the  wagon  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  could  have  squeezed  in,  or  else  ridden 
Roland,  but  I  was  too  busy.  I'm  making  a  new 
hat,  and  that's  always  a  very  absorbing  occupa- 
tion. Don't  you  think  it's  going  to  be  pretty?" 
And  Marjorie  held  up  the  plain  straw  hat, 
trimmed  with  blue  ribbon,  for  her  uncle's  inspec- 
tion. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  most  becoming," 
said  Mr.  Carleton,  smiling,  "  but  have  you  done 
it  all  yourself?  " 

"Of  course  I  have.  I've  trimmed  all  my  hats 
since  I  was  twelve.  I  make  my  shirt-waists, 
too,  all  but  the  cutting  out;  Mother  does  that. 
Doesn't  Elsie  make  her  own  things  ?  " 


60    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"No,  I'm  afraid  she  doesn't;  sewing  isn't  ex- 
actly in  Elsie's  line." 

"  Perhaps  she  likes  other  kinds  of  work  bet- 
ter," said  Marjorie,  cheerfully.  "  I  suppose 
Aunt  Julia  is  disappointed,  though.  Mother  says 
she  would  be  very  sorry  if  I  didn't  like  to  sew; 
she  thinks  every  girl  should  learn  to  make  her 
own  clothes." 

"  I'm  afraid  your  aunt  isn't  any  more  fond  of 
sewing  than  Elsie  is,"  said  Mr.  Carleton,  with  a 
rather  peculiar  smile. 

Marjorie  secretly  wondered  who  made  Elsie's 
dresses,  and  who  attended  to  the  household  mend- 
ing, but  fearing  it  might  be  impolite  to  ask, 
changed  the  subject  by  saying: 

"  Undine  could  scarcely  sew  at  all  when  she 
came,  but  Aunt  Jessie  has  been  teaching  her,  and 
she  has  improved  very  much.  Don't  you  think 
it's  tremendously  interesting  about  Undine,  Uncle 
Henry?" 

"  It  is  certainly  a  most  unusual  case,"  admitted 
Mr.  Carleton.  "I  was  at  first  inclined  to  be- 
lieve that  Miss  Undine  was  gifted  with  a  vivid 
imagination,  and  was  imposing  on  you  all,  but 
your  father  and  mother  believe  her  story." 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  we  all  believe  it,"  cried  Mar- 
jorie,   eagerly.     "We   know   it's   true,   because 


A  PROPOSITION  61 

Father  wrote  to  the  dressmaker  where  Undine 
worked  for  two  years,  and  she  said  everything 
was  just  as  Undine  had  told  us." 

"  Well,  it  is  certainly  a  case  for  a  brain  spe- 
cialist," said  Mr.  Carleton,  "  but  unfortunately 
there  are  no  specialists  of  any  kind  in  this  part 
of  the  world.  I  wish  there  were,  for  your  aunt 
Jessie's  .sake." 

Marjorie's  bright  face  was  suddenly  clouded. 

"You  don't  think  Aunt  Jessie  ill,  do  you?" 
she  asked,  anxiously.  "  She  seems  so  much  bet- 
ter than  she  was  two  weeks  ago." 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  is  worse  than  usual, 
but  she  is  a  very  different  creature  from  the 
strong,  active  girl  I  remember.  Poor  child,  she 
has  had  a  terrible  experience;  I  wish  some  good 
surgeon  could  see  her." 

"  You  mean  —  oh,  Uncle  Henry,  you  mean 
you  think  a  surgeon  might  possibly  be  able  to 
help  her!"  Marjorie's  hat  had  fallen  into  her 
lap,  and  she  was  regarding  her  uncle  with  eager, 
troubled  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  a  surgeon  could  help 
her  or  not,  but  he  could  at  least  make  an  exami- 
nation. I  don't  suppose  there  is  even  an  ordi- 
nary physician  in  this  neighborhood." 

"  There  is  one  at  Lorton,  but  that's  twenty 


62     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

miles  away,  and  I've  heard  people  say  he  wasn't 
very  good.  Father  sent  for  a  surgeon  from  Al- 
buquerque when  Aunt  Jessie  was  hurt,  and  he 
said  it  was  her  spine  that  had  been  injured,  and 
that  she  could  never  be  cured.  Do  you  think  a 
doctor  from  the  East  might  say  something  dif- 
ferent ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  get  so  excited.  I 
really  have  not  the  slightest  idea;  I  was  only 
speculating  on  my  own  account.  It  seems  such 
a  pity  that  one  so  young  —  well,  well,  it  can't  be 
helped,  I  suppose,  and  there  is  no  use  in  talking 
about  it." 

Marjorie  sighed  as  she  took  up  her  work 
again,  and  they  were  both  silent  for  several  min- 
utes. Then  Marjorie  spoke  again,  and  her  voice 
was  not  quite  steady. 

"  If  I  thought  there  was  any  surgeon  in  the 
world  who  could  cure  Aunt  Jessie,  I  believe  I 
would  go  and  find  him  myself,  and  bring  him 
here,  if  it  took  me  years  to  earn  the  money,  and  I 
had  to  work  day  and  night  to  do  it.  She's  the 
dearest,  bravest  —  oh,  Uncle  Henry,  you  haven't 
any  idea  what  Aunt  Jessie  is !  " 

Marjorie  broke  off,  with  a  half -suppressed  sob, 
and  dashed  away  some  tears,  which  would  come 
in  spite  of  a  brave  effort  to  keep  them  back. 


A  PROPOSITION  63 

Mr.  Carleton's  face  softened  as  he  watched  her; 
he  had  grown  to  have  a  high  opinion  of  this 
niece  of  his.  He  could  not  help  wondering 
rather  sadly  whether  there  were  any  one  in  the 
world  of  whom  his  own  little  daughter  would 
have  spoken  in  such  glowing  terms. 

"  You're  a  loyal  little  soul,  Marjorie,,,  he  said 
kindly.     "  I  wish  Elsie  had  you  for  a  friend." 

Marjorie  smiled  through  her  tears. 

"  I  wish  I  had  her  for  my  friend,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  you  think  she  would  like  to  come  out 
here  and  make  us  a  visit  some  time?  She  might 
find  it  rather  hot  in  summer,  if  she  wasn't  ac- 
customed to  it,  but  the  winters  are  beautiful." 

"  Elsie  has  her  school  in  winter,"  Mr.  Carle- 
ton  said,  "  but  perhaps  she  may  come  some  day. 
Hark,  who  is  that  singing?" 

"  Only  Jim  coming  with  the  mail.  He  always 
sings  when  he  rides.  It's  generally  '  Manda- 
lay,'  but  it's  '  Loch  Lomond '  to-day." 

"  '  Oh,  you'll  tak'  the  high  road,  and  I'll  tak'  the  low 
road/  " 

sang  the  clear  tenor  voice,  and  Jim  Hathaway, 
on  his  big  brown  horse,  came  galloping  up  to 
the  door. 

"  There's  only  one  letter  for  you  to-day,  Uncle 


64    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Henry,"  announced  Marjorie,  taking  the  hand- 
ful of  letters  and  papers  from  the  boy.  "  It's 
a  big  fat  one,  though.  Perhaps  it's  from  Elsie; 
you  haven't  had  one  letter  from  Elsie  since  you 
came." 

"  It  is  from  your  Aunt  Julia,"  said  Mr.  Carle- 
ton,  and  immediately  proceeded  to  make  himself 
acquainted  with  its  contents,  while  Jim  galloped 
away  to  the  stables,  and  Marjorie  went  on  with 
her  hat  trimming. 

It  was,  as  Marjorie  had  said,  a  "  fat  letter," 
and  it  took  Mr.  Carleton  some  time  to  read  it. 
Indeed,  he  read  some  parts  over  more  than  once, 
before  he  finally  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  pre- 
pared to  light  a  cigar.  "  Are  Aunt  Julia  and 
Elsie  well?"  Marjorie  inquired,  politely.  She 
could  not  help  wondering  why  this  aunt  and 
cousin  never  sent  any  messages  to  her. 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  are  very  well,  thank  you. 
Your  aunt  says  it  has  been  rather  warm  for  the 
season,  and  there  hasn't  been  much  going  on." 

Mr.  Carleton  relapsed  into  silence,  and  Mar- 
jorie said  no  more.  Her  thoughts  were  filled  by 
a  new  idea.  What  if  a  surgeon  could  really  be 
found  who  would  be  able  to  cure  Aunt  Jessie? 
Such  a  possibility  seemed  almost  too  wonderful 
to  be  contemplated,  and  yet, —  and  yet  — 


d  PROPOSITION.  65 

The  whistle  of  a  distant  train  broke  the  still- 
ness, and  Marjorie  came  down  from  her  air  castle 
to  remark  — 

"  There  goes  the  East  Bound ;  two  hours  late 
to-day." 

"  You  seem  as  much  interested  in  the  hours  of 
trains  as  if  you  were  in  the  habit  of  traveling  on 
one  at  least  once  a  week/'  said  Mr.  Carleton, 
smiling.  "  How  would  you  like  to  take  a  jour- 
ney —  to  go  to  New  York,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  I  should  love  it  better  than  anything  in  the 
world,"  said  Marjorie  frankly. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  can  be  managed.  What 
would  you  say  to  going  East  with  me  next  week, 
and  spending  the  winter  in  New  York?  " 

For  the  second  time  the  hat  Marjorie  was 
trimming  rolled  unheeded  into  her  lap,  while  she 
sat  staring  at  her  uncle  with  startled,  wondering 
eyes.  The  proposal  was  so  sudden  —  so  un- 
dreamed of  —  that  for  the  first  moment  she  was 
speechless,  and  when  words  did  come  at  last, 
they  were  only: 

"  You  mean  to  spend  the  winter  with  you  and 
Aunt  Julia?" 

"  Yes,  and  to  go  to  school  with  Elsie.  I  think 
your  father  and  mother  are  rather  anxious  about 
your  education." 


66    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  I  know  they  are,"  said  Marjorie,  eagerly. 
"  They  wanted  to  send  me  to  school  at  Al- 
buquerque this  autumn,  but  the  drought  spoiled 
the  alfalfa  crop,  and  there  was  disease  among  the 
cattle,  so  Father  didn't  feel  he  could  afford  it.  I 
should  love  to  see  New  York  more  than  anything 
I  can  think  of,  but  to  go  so  far  away  from  them 
all  for  a  whole  winter  —  oh,  Uncle  Henry,  you're 
very  kind  to  suggest  it,  but  I  really  don't  be- 
lieve I  could." 

"  Not  if  you  knew  your  father  and  mother 
wished  it  very  much,  and  that  it  would  be  a  great 
relief  to  their  minds?"  Mr.  Carleton  spoke 
rather  gravely,  and  Marjorie  felt  suddenly  em- 
barrassed. 

"Of  course  I  would  try  to  do  what  they 
wanted  me  to,"  she  said  meekly,  "  but  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  would  be  willing  to  have  me  go  as  far 
away  from  them.  Albuquerque  was  different;  I 
could  have  come  home  for  the  vacations  from 
there.  It's  awfully  good  of  you,  Uncle  Henry, 
and  I  would  love  to  see  Aunt  Julia  and  Elsie,  but 
New  York  is  so  far  away." 

"Only  three  days  by  train,"  said  Mr.  Carle- 
ton,  smiling;  "that  ought  not  to  seem  much  to 
you  Westerners.  You  would  find  the  life  very 
different  from  that  to  which  you  have  been  ac- 


A  PROPOSITION  67 

customed,  but  I  think  you  would  enjoy  it,  and 
you  must  have  an  education,  you  know." 

Marjorie  blushed,  and  her  eyes  drooped. 

"  I  want  it  very  much,"  she  said  humbly.  "  If 
I  were  well  educated,  I  might  be  able  to  teach, 
and  to  help  Father  and  Mother  in  other  ways. 
Uncle  Henry,  do  you  think  it  is  my  duty  to  go  to 
New  York?" 

"  Yes,  Marjorie,  I  do,"  said  her  uncle,  with 
unusual  gravity.  "  I  think  it  is  an  opportunity 
that  you  should  not  miss.  I  have  written  your 
Aunt  Julia  about  it,  and  her  answer  has  just 
come.  She  agrees  with  me  that  it  will  be  the 
best  thing  for  you.  Your  home  will  be  with  us, 
of  course,  and  you  will  go  to  school  with  Elsie. 
It  is  not  a  large  school,  only  a  class  of  a  dozen 
girls,  and  the  teacher  is  a  charming  woman. 
You  will  soon  make  friends,  and  I  think  you 
would  be  happy." 

"  And  I  would  be  with  Elsie,"  said  Marjorie, 
beginning  to  look  on  the  bright  side,  as  she  gen- 
erally did.  "  It  would  be  lovely  to  know  my  own 
cousin.  Have  you  spoken  to  Mother  about  it, 
Uncle  Henry?" 

"  Not  yet,  but  I  intend  doing  so  this  evening. 
I  have  been  waiting  for  your  aunt's  reply  to  my 
letter.     I  feel  quite  sure  your  mother  will  con- 


68     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

sent;  she  is  too  sensible  a  woman  to  do  anything 
else.  But  it  will  be  hard  for  her  to  let  you  go 
so  far  away,  and  I  want  you  to  be  a  brave,  sen- 
sible girl,  and  not  make  it  any  harder  than  you 
can  help." 

For  a  moment  Marjorie  was  silent,  and  her 
uncle  could  see  by  her  face  something  of  the 
struggling  that  was  going  on  within.  Then  she 
spoke,  and  her  voice  was  clear  and  brave. 

"  All  right,  Uncle  Henry,  I  promise.  If 
Father  and  Mother  want  me  to  go  I  will,  and  I'll 
try  not  to  let  them  see  how  hard  it  is.  After 
all,  it  won't  be  like  going  to  stay  with  strangers, 
for  I  shall  be  with  my  own  relations  all  the  time, 
and  it  will  be  so  nice  to  have  a  cousin  of  my  own 
age.  Here  comes  the  wagon,  so  we  can't  talk 
any  more  now.  Oh,  Uncle  Henry,  there's  just 
one  question  I  want  to  ask.  Are  there  many 
good  surgeons  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  Plenty  of  them,"  said  her  uncle,  smiling. 
"  Don't  say  anything  of  what  we  have  been  talk- 
ing about,  Marjorie,  until  I  have  a  chance  to  ex- 
plain to  your  mother." 

"  No,  I  won't,  and,  Uncle  Henry,  please  don't 
think  me  ungrateful  because  I  couldn't  be  so  glad 
just  at  first.  It's  beautiful  of  you  and  Aunt 
Julia  to  want  me,  and  if  I  go  I'll  try  not  to  give 


A  PROPOSITION!  69 

any  more  trouble;  than  I  can  possibly  help.  Now 
I  am  going  to  my  room  for  a  few  minutes.  I 
don't  want  Aunt  Jessie  to  see  me  till  I've  got  my 
face  straightened  out.  She  knows  me  so  well 
she  says  she  can  tell  the  moment  there  is  any- 
thing the  matter." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    LAST   EVENING 

It  was  settled.  Marjorie  was  to  go  East  with 
her  uncle,  and  spend  the  winter  in  New  York. 
Mr.  Carleton  felt  that  he  could  not  leave  his 
business  much  longer,  and  was  anxious  to  start 
as  soon  as  Marjorie  could  be  ready.  For  a  week 
Mrs.  Graham  and  Miss  Jessie  had  sewed  as  they 
had  never  sewed  before,  and  Marjorie  and  even 
Undine  had  worked  so  hard  that  there  had  been 
little  time  to  think  of  anything  else.  Now  it  was 
the  last  evening,  and  the  small  leather  trunk  con- 
taining all  Marjorie's  simple  possessions,  stood 
packed,  and  ready  to  be  taken  early  next 
morning,  to  the  railway  station  twenty  miles 
away. 

Mr.  Carleton  had  been  somewhat  puzzled  by 
all  these  elaborate  preparations,  and  had  ventured 
a  gentle  remonstrance  to  his  sister. 

"Why  take  so  much  trouble,  Susie?  Julia 
will  get  the  child  everything  she  needs,  and  I'll 
attend  to  the  bills.     You  needn't  worry  about 

70 


THE  LAST  EVENING  71 

Marjorie's  being  well-dressed;  you  know  Julia 
has  excellent  taste." 

But  Mrs.  Graham  was  resolute.  She  knew 
well  that  her  own  ideas  of  dress  and  those  of  her 
New  York  sister-in-law  were  very  different,  but 
she  was  not  without  her  share  of  family  pride, 
and  was  not  willing  that  Marjorie  should  appear 
before  her  Eastern  relatives  in  clothes  unfit  for 
her  position.  But  alas!  It  was  twelve  years 
since  Mrs.  Graham  had  left  her  New  York  home, 
and  styles  change  a  good  deal  in  twelve  years. 

Every  one  had  kept  up  bravely  during  that 
busy  week,  and  they  had  all  been  extremely 
cheerful.  Marjorie  never  knew  of  the  bitter 
tears  shed  by  mother  and  aunt  in  the  solitude  of 
their  own  rooms,  and  Mrs.  Graham's  heart  would 
have  ached  even  more  than  it  did  had  she  known 
of  the  hours  Marjorie  lay  awake,  her  head  buried 
deep  in  the  pillow,  so  that  Aunt  Jessie  in  the  next 
room,  should  not  hear  her  crying.  Every  one 
knew  it  was  for  the  best.  Even  Marjorie,  mis- 
erable as  she  was  sometimes  at  the  thought  of 
the  two  thousand  miles  which  must  soon  lie  be- 
tween herself  and  the  people  she  loved  best, 
would  have  been  keenly  disappointed  if  Uncle 
Henry  had  suddenly  changed  his  mind,  or  Aunt 
Julia  written  that  it  would  not  be  convenient  to 


72     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

have  her.  All  through  that  last  day  she  had 
worked  hard,  trying  not  to  think  about  to-morrow, 
but  now  everything  was  done  and  everybody  was 
resting  after  their  labors.  Marjorie  had  sat  on 
the  porch  for  an  hour  with  her  mother  and  aunt, 
and  they  had  all  tried  to  talk  cheerfully  as  usual, 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  There  was  a  dreadful  in- 
clination on  all  their  parts  to  drop  into  long  si- 
lences, which  nobody  seemed  able  to  break. 
They  were  alone,  for  Mr.  Carleton  and  his 
brother-in-law  had  gone  for  a  walk,  and  Undine 
was  helping  Juanita  in  the  kitchen. 

At  last,  at  the  end  of  a  longer  silence  than 
usual,  Marjorie,  feeling  sure  she  shouldn't  be 
able  to  hold  out  much  longer,  suddenly  sprang  up, 
explaining  hurriedly: 

"  I'll  be  right  back;  I'm  just  going  to  the 
stables  for  a  moment  to  say  good-by  to  Roland." 
And  she  was  off  across  the  lawn,  biting  her  lip 
to  keep  back  the  sobs  that  must  not  come  until 
she  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  her  dear 
ones. 

The  bidding  good-by  to  her  pony  was  a  rather 
lengthy  proceeding.  She  was  alone,  for  the  men 
had  all  gone  off  to  their  suppers,  so  she  had  her 
cry  out  on  Roland's  neck,  and  whispered  her  last 
loving  instructions  into  his  faithful  ears. 


THE  LASTi  EVENING  73 

"  You  are  to  be  a  good  pony,  Roland,  and  do 
just  as  you  are  told  till  I  come  home.  Undine  is 
to  ride  you  whenever  she  likes,  and  Aunt  Jessie 
thinks  riding  is  so  good  for  her  that  she's  going 
to  try  to  let  her  go  out  for  an  hour  every  day. 
You  will  miss  me,  I  know,  Roland  dear,  and  I 
shall  miss  you  terribly,  but  I've  got  to  have  an 
education,  and  after  all  one  winter  isn't  so  very 
long  to  be  away." 

Whether  Roland  understood  or  not  I  cannot 
pretend  to  say,  but  he  rubbed  his  soft  nose 
against  Marjorie's  cheek,  and  snuggled  up  close 
to  her  as  if  he  loved  her,  and  she  left  the  stable 
feeling  somehow  cheered  and  comforted. 

On  the  way  back  she  passed  the  old  playhouse, 
and  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  going  in 
for  one  more  last  good-bye,  although  she  knew 
it  would  mean  another  fit  of  crying.  The  sight 
of  the  old  toys  and  picture  books  —  relics  of  the 
childhood  that  would  never  come  back  —  affected 
her  even  more  than  the  parting  with  Roland  had 
done,  and  sinking  down  on  the  bench  where  she 
had  dozed  on  the  afternoon  of  Undine's  arrival, 
she  gave  herself  up  to  a  few  minutes  of  quiet, 
undisturbed  grief. 

She  had  just  dried  her  eyes,  and  was  wonder- 
ing if  she  could  manage  to  reach  her  own  room, 


74     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

and  wash  her  face,  without  being  seen  by  any  of 
her  family,  when  the  door,  which  had  been  partly 
closed,  was  pushed  gently  open,  and  Undine  came 
in. 

At  sight  of  her  friend,  Undine  drew  back, 
blushing. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  here,"  she  said, 
apologetically;  "I'll  go  away  if  you  want  to  be 
alone." 

"  Come  in,"  said  Marjorie,  making  room  for 
her  on  the  bench.  "  Were  you  looking  for 
me?" 

Undine's  eyes  drooped,  and  the  color  deep- 
ened in  her  cheeks. 

"  I  came  to  cry,"  she  said  simply. 

"To  cry?"  repeated  Marjorie  in  surprise; 
"  what  did  you  want  to  cry  for?  " 

"  Because  you're  going  away,"  Undine  con- 
fessed, nestling  closer  to  her  friend. 

Marjorie  slipped  an  arm  round  her.  "  I  didn't 
know  you  cared  so  much,"  she  said.  "You'll 
have  Aunt  Jessie,  and  you're  so  fond  of  her." 

"  I  shall  miss  you  dreadfully,"  whispered  Un- 
dine tremulously.  "  You've  been  so  good  to  me, 
and  —  and  you  were  the  first  one  to  believe  in  me. 
All  the  rest  thought  I  was  telling  stories,  even 
Miss  Jessie." 


THE  LAST  EVENING         75 

"  I  couldn't  help  believing  you,"  said  Mar- 
jorie,  laughing.  "  When  you  looked  at  me  with 
those  big  eyes  of  yours,  and  told  me  all  those 
strange  things,  I  felt  sure  they  were  true,  though 
it  was  the  queerest  story  I  had  ever  heard.  I 
think  I  should  have  to  believe  every  word  you 
ever  told  me." 

Undine  smiled. 

"  I  don't  think  your  uncle  believes  it  all  even 
yet,"  she  said.  "  He  looks  at  me  so  queerly 
sometimes  that  it  makes  me  uncomfortable.  I 
wish  you  were  not  going  away  with  him." 

"  Oh,  he  is  very  kind,"  said  Marjorie,  loy- 
ally. "  It's  so  good  of  him  to  be  willing  to  take 
me  to  New  York,  and  send  me  to  school  for  the 
whole  winter.  I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  him,  Un- 
dine." 

"  Well,  he  may  be  kind,  but  he  isn't  nearly  as 
nice  as  your  father  and  mother.  How  do  you 
know  you  are  going  to  like  New  York  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it,  as  soon  as  I 
get  used  to  things  there."  Marjorie  spoke  with 
forced  cheerfulness  and  choked  down  a  ris- 
ing lump  in  her  throat.  "You  see,  it  isn't 
like  going  to  live  among  strangers,"  she  went 
on,  as  much  for  the  sake  of  reassuring  her- 
self as  her  friend.     "I  shall  be  with  my  own 


76    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

uncle  and  aunt,  and  then  there  will  be  Elsie." 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  like  Elsie ;  you've  never 
seen  her." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  shall  like  her.  She's  my 
own  cousin,  and  only  three  months  older  than 
I  am.  I  have  always  thought  that  having  a 
cousin  was  the  next  best  thing  to  having  a 
sister." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  ever  had  a  sister,"  Undine  re- 
marked irrelevantly.  "  Somehow  I  don't  believe 
I  had,  for  when  I  say  the  word  *  sister '  it  never 
makes  my  heart  beat  the  way  it  does  when  I 
say  '  Mother.'  I  know  I  had  a  mother,  and  I 
think  I  must  have  loved  her  very  much." 

"  Perhaps  that's  because  you've  grown  to  love 
my  mother,"  Marjorie  suggested;  "she  may  re- 
mind you  of  yours." 

Undine  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and 
the  old  bewildered  look  came  back  into  her 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh ;  "  I 
don't  know  anything.  Oh,  Marjorie,  do  you 
think  I  shall  ever  remember? " 

"  I'm  sure  you  will,"  said  Marjorie  confi- 
dently, "  and  so  is  Aunt  Jessie.  She  says  she's 
sure  when  you  get  well  and  strong  it  will  make  a 
great  difference,  and  that's  why  she  wants  you  to 


THE  LAST  EVENING  77 

be  out  in  the  air  as  much  as  possible.  You  are 
ever  so  much  better  now  than  when  you  came, 
and  when  you  are  better  still,  and  have  left  off 
worrying,  you'll  wake  up  some  morning  remem- 
bering everything;  just  wait  and  see  if  you 
don't." 

Undine  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  rather  sad. 

"  I  try  not  to  worry,"  she  said,  "  and  I'm  hap- 
pier here  than  I  ever  was  before,  but  I'm  so 
frightened  even  now  when  I  stop  to  think  about 
it  all."  Undine's  sentence  ended  with  an  invol- 
untary shudder. 

"  Look  here,  Undine,"  said  Marjorie,  with  a 
sudden  determination,  "  I'm  going  to  let  you  in 
to  a  great  secret.  You  must  promise  not  to 
speak  to  any  one  about  it,  even  Mother,  for  if 
it  should  never  come  to  anything  it  would  be  such 
a  dreadful  disappointment  to  everybody." 

"  I  won't  tell,"  promised  Undine,  beginning  to 
look  interested. 

"  It's  about  Aunt  Jessie.  Uncle  Henry  was 
speaking  of  Aunt  Jessie  one  day,  and  he  thinks 
it  such  a  pity  a  good  surgeon  couldn't  see  her. 
He  says  she  might  be  helped  a  great  deal. 
There  are  no  good  surgeons  here,  but  Uncle 
Henry  says  there  are  a  great  many  in  New  York, 
and  I've  been  thinking  < —  oh,  Undine,  I'm  almost 


78     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

afraid  to  say  it,  it  seems  so  presumptuous  —  but 
just  suppose  I  should  meet  a  surgeon  in  New 
York,  and  be  able  to  persuade  him  to  come  here 
to  see  Aunt  Jessie,  and  suppose  he  should  cure 
her!  It's  the  one  hope  that  keeps  me  up  every 
time  I  feel  like  breaking  down  at  the  idea  of  go- 
ing so  far  away  from  everybody." 

"  It  would  be  perfectly  beautiful,"  Undine 
agreed  warmly,  "  but  do  you  suppose  any  sur- 
geon would  be  willing  to  come  so  far  to  see  some 
one  he  didn't  know?" 

Marjorie's  face,  which  had  brightened  for  a 
moment,  grew  very  serious  again. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  If  he  knew  her 
I'm  sure  he  would  come  —  any  one  would  —  but 
if  he  had  never  even  heard  of  her  existence  it 
would  be  different,  of  course.  I  don't  know  how 
I'm  going  to  manage  it;  I  only  know  it's  the 
thing  I  want  most  in  the  whole  world,  and  I'm 
going  to  try  for  it  with  all  my  might." 

There  was  a  ring  in  Marjorie's  voice,  and  a 
light  in  her  eyes,  which  impressed  her  friend, 
and  with  a  quick,  affectionate  impulse,  Undine 
caught  her  hand  and  squeezed  it. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help,"  she  said,  "  but  there 
isn't  anything  I  can  do  except  pray  about  it.  I 
will  pray  every  night,  just  as  hard  as  I  do  to  re- 


THE  LAST  EVENING         79 

member,  and  if  it  really  should  happen  I  think  I 
should  be  almost  as  happy  as  you." 

Just  then  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  and  voices, 
and  with  a  whispered  caution  to  Undine  not  to 
breathe  a  word  to  any  one,  Marjorie  hurried 
away  to  join  her  father  and  uncle,  who  were  re- 
turning from  their  walk. 

Everybody  made  a  great  effort  to  be  cheerful 
at  supper  that  evening.  Even  Mr.  Carleton, 
who  was  usually  rather  quiet,  threw  himself 
manfully  into  the  breach,  and  told  funny  stories 
that  made  them  all  laugh.  After  all,  the  even- 
ing wasn't  as  dreadful  as  Marjorie  had  feared 
it  was  going  to  be,  but  when  bedtime  came,  and 
she  had  to  say  good-night  to  her  family  for  the 
last  time  for  eight  whole  months,  she  felt  herself 
in  immediate  danger  of  breaking  down. 

Mrs.  Graham  sat  for  a  long  time  by  her  daugh- 
ter's bedside  that  night,  and  they  had  what  Mar- 
jorie called  "  a  perfectly  Heavenly  talk."  It 
was  a  serious  talk,  but  not  a  sad  one,  and  when  it 
was  over,  and  Marjorie  flung  her  arms  round 
her  mother's  neck,  and  did  break  down  just  a 
little,  things  did  not  seem  nearly  as  hopeless  as 
she  had  expected. 

"  I  don't  believe  any  other  girl  in  the  world 


80    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

has  such  a  perfect  mother  as  I  have/'  was  Mar- 
jorie's  last  waking  thought.  "  I  don't  deserve 
her,  and  never  can,  but  I'm  going  to  try  not  to 
disappoint  her  any  more  than  I  can  possibly 
help.  One  winter  can't  last  for  ever,  and  when 
June  comes,  and  I  am  at  home  again,  how  glo- 
riously happy  we  shall  all  be! " 


CHAPTER  VII 

MARJ0RIE  WRITES  LETTERS 

"  October  28th,  19— 
"  My  Own  Precious  Mother  : 

"  The  first  letter  must  be  to  you,  of  course, 
and  the  next  to  Aunt  Jessie.  Uncle  Henry  says 
if  I  write  now  I  can  post  my  letter  when  we  stop 
at  Albuquerque  this  afternoon.  Oh,  Mother 
darling,  was  it  only  this  morning  that  I  said 
good-bye  to  you  all?  It  seems  as  if  I  had  been 
away  a  month  already. 

"  I  am  writing  this  at  the  desk  in  the  library 
car,  and  the  train  shakes  so  I  am  afraid  my 
writing  will  be  worse  than  ever.  Uncle  Henry 
says  I  shall  soon  get  accustomed  to  the  motion, 
but  just  now  it  makes  my  head  ache,  and  the  car 
feels  very  hot  and  stuffy.  I  opened  the  window, 
but  a  great  many  cinders  came  in,  and  a  lady  in 
the  section  next  to  mine  asked  me  to  close  it 
again,  so  I  had  to. 

"  I  hope  Father  didn't  tell  you  what  a  goose  I 
was  at  the  station.     I  didn't  mean  to  cry  so 

81 


82     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

much,  but  when  I  thought  of  you  and  Aunt  Jes- 
sie waving  good-bye  to  me  from  the  porch,  with 
such  a  sorrowful  look  on  both  your  dear  faces, 
I  just  couldn't  help  it.  I  am  going  to  cheer  up 
right  away,  though,  so  please  don't  worry  about 
me. 

"  It  really  was  very  exciting  when  the  train 
stopped  at  Lorton,  and  Uncle  Henry  and  I  got 
in.  When  it  began  to  move,  and  I  realized  that 
I  was  actually  on  board,  I  gave  a  kind  of  gasp, 
and  would  have  liked  to  scream,  if  I  hadn't  been 
afraid  of  shocking  Uncle  Henry.  There  are 
not  many  people  on  the  train,  the  colored  porter 
says,  and  Uncle  Henry  and  I  both  have  sections 
to  ourselves.  I  thought  there  would  be  regular 
beds  to  sleep  in,  but  there  are  not.  The  porter 
says  they  turn  the  seats  into  beds  at  night,  and 
there  are  curtains  to  let  down.  I  should  think 
it  would  be  very  uncomfortable  sleeping  so  close 
to  other  people,  but  I  suppose  one  gets  used  to  it 
when  one  has  traveled  a  good  deal.  Uncle 
Henry  says  Aunt  Julia  won't  travel  unless  she 
has  a  stateroom,  but  he  doesn't  object  to  the  sec- 
tions. I  looked  into  the  stateroom  in  this  car, 
but  it  didn't  look  very  different  from  the  sec- 
tions, except  that  it  was  larger  and  there  was  a 
place  to  wash. 


MARJORIE  WRITES  LETTERS     83 

"  We  had  lunch  at  a  little  table  in  the  dining- 
car.  It  was  delicious  but  my  head  ached  a  lit- 
tle, and  I  wasn't  very  hungry.  Uncle  Henry 
talked  politics  with  a  gentleman  who  sat  at  the 
same  table  with  us,  but  they  didn't  say  much  to 
me,  so  I  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  it  was  all 
very  interesting.  We  are  in  Mexico  now,  and 
to-morrow  we  shall  be  in  Kansas.  Kansas 
makes  me  think  of  Undine  and  Mrs.  Hicks.  Oh, 
how  I  do  wonder  if  Undine  will  ever  remember ! 

"  Uncle  Henry  says  we  shall  be  in  Albu- 
querque in  a  few  minutes,  so  I  must  stop  writing 
if  I  want  to  post  my  letter  there.  Good-night, 
Mother  darling;  I  will  write  again  to-morrow, 
and  indeed,  indeed,  I  will  try  to  remember  all  the 
things  you  said  to  me  last  night,  and  to  be  always 
"Your  own  loving 

"  Marjorie." 

"  October  28th. 
"Darling  Aunt  Jessie: 

"  I  have  been  a  whole  night  on  the  train,  and 
when  I  think  of  how  far  away  from  home  we 
are,  I  can't  help  being  just  a  little  frightened, 
though  it  is  all  very  interesting.  I  posted 
Mother's  letter  at  Albuquerque,  where  the  train 
stopped  half  an  hour.     Uncle  Henry  and  I  got 


84    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

out  and  walked  up  and  down  the  platform,  and, 
oh,  it  was  good  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air!  I 
really  didn't  know  that  any  place  could  be  quite 
so  stuffy  as  this  train.  Everybody  seems  afraid 
to  have  the  windows  open  on  account  of  the  cin- 
ders, but  I  think  I  should  prefer  even  cinders  to 
stuffiness.  There  were  some  Indians  selling 
blankets  and  baskets,  and  a  good  many  people 
bought  things.  They  crowded  round  us,  and 
made  a  good  deal  of  fuss,  and  I  heard  one  lady 
say  she  was  afraid  of  them.  Just  think  of  being 
afraid  of  poor  harmless  Indians!  I  would  have 
liked  to  tell  her  how  foolish  she  was,  but  was 
afraid  Uncle  Henry  might  be  displeased.  I  don't 
think  he  is  a  very  friendly  person,  for  he  hardly 
speaks  to  any  of  the  passengers  on  the  train,  and 
last  night  he  told  me  I  talked  too  much  to  the 
black  porter,  who  was  making  up  the  sections. 
Oh,  Aunt  Jessie,  it  was  so  curious  to  see  him 
turning  all  the  seats  into  beds,  but  you  have  been 
on  a  sleeping  car,  and  know  all  about  it. 

"  We  had  a  very  good  dinner,  which  I  enjoyed 
more  than  lunch,  because  my  head  was  better, 
and  in  the  evening  we  sat  on  the  platform  of  the 
observation  car,  and  it  was  very  pleasant.  Uncle 
Henry  was  kind,  and  talked  to  me  a  good  deal  — 
at  least  it  was  a  good  deal  for  him.     I  asked  him 


MARJORIE  WRITES  LETTERS     85 

if  he  wasn't  yery  anxious  to  get  home  to  see 
Aunt  Julia  and  Elsie,  and  he  said  of  course  he 
should  be  glad  to  see  them,  but  didn't  seem 
nearly  as  excited  as  I  am  sure  Father  would  bS 
about  seeing  us  if  he  had  been  away  from  us 
for  three  whole  weeks.  I  think  Elsie  must  be 
very  busy,  for  besides  going  to  school,  she  has 
music  and  German  lessons  in  the  afternoons,  and 
goes  to  a  dancing  class.  Uncle  Henry  said  he 
hoped  she  and  I  would  be  good  friends,  and  I 
told  him  I  was  quite  sure  we  should.  Imagine  a 
girl  not  being  good  friends  with  her  own  first 
cousin !  Did  you  know  we  are  to  live  in  a  hotel 
all  winter?  Uncle  Henry  has  a  house  on  Madi- 
son Avenue,  but  Aunt  Julia  is  tired  of  house- 
keeping, so  he  has  rented  it,  and  taken  rooms  in  a 
hotel  instead.  Uncle  Henry  calls  the  rooms  an 
apartment,  and  the  name  of  the  hotel  is  the 
1  Plaza.'  It  is  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  right  op- 
posite the  park,  which  must  be  very  pretty.  I 
should  think  it  would  seem  very  queer  to  live  in 
a  house  with  a  lot  of  other  people,  but  then  the 
people  who  live  in  hotels  must  have  a  great  many 
friends. 

"  At  about  nine  o'clock  Uncle  Henry  said  hg 
was  sleepy,  so  we  went  back  to  our  car,  and  that 
was  when  I  talked  to  the  porter  while  he  made 


86    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

up  the  beds.  I  thought  at  first  that  I  should 
never  be  able  to  sleep ;  the  train  shook  so,  and  we 
were  going  so  fast.  It  was  hard  work  undress- 
ing behind  the  curtain,  but  I  managed  somehow, 
and  even  had  a  wash,  though  I  had  to  hold  on  to 
the  side  of  the  car  with  one  hand  while  I  washed 
my  face  with  the  other.  I  did  cry  a  little  after 
I  was  in  bed,  but  I  don't  think  any  one  heard. 
It  was  my  very  first  night  away  from  home,  you 
know,  Aunt  Jessie  dear,  but  I  tried  to  remember 
all  the  lovely,  comforting  things  you  and  Mother 
said  to  me,  and  I  think  I  must  have  been  pretty 
tired,  for  before  I  realized  I  was  getting  sleepy 
I  was  sound  asleep,  and  I  never  opened  my  eyes 
till  it  was  broad  daylight. 

"  To-day  we  are  in  Kansas,  and  it  is  very  flat, 
and  not  at  all  pretty.  Uncle  Henry  says  we 
won't  have  any  more  fine  scenery  till  we  get  to 
the  Hudson.  The  train  seems  stuffier  than  ever, 
and  I  am  just  pining  for  fresh  air  and  exercise. 
We  sat  on  the  observation  platform  for  a  while 
this  morning,  but  Uncle  Henry  didn't  like  the 
cinders,  and  wouldn't  let  me  stay  there  by  my- 
self, so  we  came  back  to  our  car.  I  don't  think 
traveling  on  a  train  is  quite  as  pleasant  as  I 
thought  it  was  going  to  be.  I  am  sure  I  should 
like  an  automobile  better.     We  saw  automobiles 


MARJORIE  WRITES  LETTERS     87 

at  Topeka,  where  we  stopped  for  ten  minutes 
this  morning,  and  they  looked  very  queer,  going 
all  by  themselves,  without  any  horses,  but  I  think 
I  should  like  a  ride  in  one.  Uncle  Henry  says 
Aunt  Julia  is  afraid  of  automobiles,  so  she  still 
uses  a  carriage. 

"I  talked  to  some  people  in  the  observation 
car  —  a  lady  and  a  little  boy,  who  are  going  to 
Chicago  —  but  I  think  most  of  the  passengers 
on  this  train  are  rather  unsociable.  They  don't 
talk  much  to  each  other  but  just  read  magazines 
and  newspapers  when  they  are  awake,  and  take 
naps  about  every  hour.  I  have  watched  the  two 
ladies  in  the  section  opposite  mine,  and  they  have 
been  asleep  at  least  four  times  to-day.  I  heard 
one  of  them  say  she  never  could  sleep  on  a  train; 
wasn't  that  funny  ? 

"  We  can  post  letters  from  Kansas  City, 
where  we  are  due  at  half  past  eight  to-night,  so  I 
can  send  this  on  from  there.  We  get  to  Chicago 
to-morrow  morning,  and  have  three  hours 
there;  won't  that  be  exciting?  Oh,  I  do  hope 
Uncle  Henry  will  take  me  for  a  good  long  walk ! 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  tramp  ten  miles. 

"  Good-bye,  you  precious  Auntie !  I  send  a 
thousand  hugs  and  kisses  to  everybody.  Tell 
Undine  not  to  forget   Roland's  sugar  —  he  al- 


88     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

ways  has  three  lumps  —  and  to  be  sure  the  kit- 
tens in  the  barn  have  their  milk  every  night  and 
morning.  I  am  afraid  I  forgot  to  tell  her  about 
the  kittens;  there  were  so  many  other  things  to 
think  of.  I  am  so  glad  you  and  Mother  have 
Undine;  she  is  such  a  dear,  and  I  know  will  try 
to  take  my  place.  I  will  write  to  Father  and 
Mother  after  I  have  been  in  Chicago. 

"  From  your  own  little  niece, 

"  Marjorie." 

"  October  30th. 
"  My  own  Precious  Father  and  Mother  : 

"  This  letter  is  for  you  both,  and  Aunt  Jessie 
must  have  a  share  in  it,  too,  because  it  is  the  last 
I  shall  be  able  to  write  on  the  train. 

"  I  didn't  write  at  all  yesterday,  it  was  such  an 
exciting  day !  We  got  to  Chicago  at  about  noon, 
and,  oh,  what  a  big,  noisy,  wonderful  place  it  is ! 
I  know  I  could  never  describe  it  if  I  tried  for  a 
week,  so  I  will  just  tell  you  what  we  did.  It 
was  raining,  which  was  a  great  disappointment 
to  me,  but  Uncle  Henry  didn't  seem  to  mind. 
He  said  we  would  take  a  taxi  and  go  to  the 
'  Blackstone '  for  lunch.  I  had  no  idea  what  a 
taxi  was,  but  didn't  like  to  ask  and  when  Uncle 
Henry  called  one  what  do  you  suppose  it  was? 


MARJORIE  WRITES  LETTERS     89 

One  of  those  wonderful  automobiles!  I  was  a 
tiny  bit  scared  when  we  first  got  in,  but  when  we 
started,  and  went  rushing  through  those  crowded, 
noisy  streets,  I  just  loved  it. 

"  It  didn't  take  us  long  to  get  to  the  '  Black- 
stone,'  which  is  an  enormous  hotel,  looking  out 
on  the  lake.  The  lake  is  wonderful ;  I  never  saw 
1S0  much  water  before,  and  though  the  fog  was 
thick,  and  we  couldn't  see  very  far,  I  should  have 
liked  to  stand  and  look  at  it  for  a  long  time,  but 
Uncle  Henry  said  we  must  hurry.  I  never  saw 
such  a  wonderful  place  as  the  dining-room  at  the 
'  Blackstone.'  There  were  quantities  of  little 
tables,  and  men  waiters  to  bring  you  what  you 
wanted.  I  thought  the  bill  of  fare  on  the  train 
was  long  enough  to  satisfy  any  one,  but  the  one 
at  the  '  Blackstone '  was  simply  endless.  Uncle 
Henry  told  me  to  choose  what  I  wanted,  but 
there  were  so  many  things  I  couldn't  possibly 
choose,  so  he  ordered  a  nice  lunch,  and  all  the 
time  we  were  eating  music  was  playing  in  a  gal- 
lery overhead. 

"  After  lunch  Uncle  Henry  took  another  taxi, 
and  told  the  driver  to  show  us  the  city.  It  was 
all  very  interesting,  but  so  noisy  and  confusing 
that  I  got  very  tired  looking  at  so  many  things 
at  once,  and  I  was  really  rather  glad  when  Uncle 


9o    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Henry  said  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  the  station. 

"  This  train  is  called  the  '  Chicago  Special,' 
and  is  even  grander  than  the  one  we  were  on 
before.  It  goes  very  fast,  but  doesn't  swing  so 
much,  because  the  road-bed  is  smoother,  Uncle 
Henry  says.  I  was  so  tired  last  night  that  I 
went  to  bed  right  after  dinner,  and  never  woke 
once  till  morning.  We  are  due  in  New  York 
this  afternoon,  and  Uncle  Henry  says  I  had  bet- 
ter post  my  letter  in  Albany,  because  after  we 
leave  there  he  wants  me  to  see  the  Hudson,  which 
I  believe  is  very  beautiful.  So  good-bye,  you 
dear  precious  people!  Oh,  how  anxious  I  am 
for  my  first  letters  from  home !  Don't  forget  to 
tell  me  about  every  single  little  thing  that  hap- 
pens. I  am  thinking  of  you  all  every  minute, 
and  if  I  were  going  to  any  other  people  but  Aunt 
Julia  and  Elsie  I  would  be  so  unhappy.  But  of 
course  going  to  one's  own  aunt  and  cousin  is 
very  different  from  being  with  strangers,  and 
Uncle  Henry  is  really  very  kind.  Oh,  I  do  won- 
der if  Elsie  is  as  much  excited  about  meeting  me 
as  I  am  about  meeting  her ! 

"  Uncle  Henry  says  we  shall  be  in  Albany  in  ten 
minutes,  so  good-bye  again,  with  oceans  of  love 
from 

"Your  own  Marjorie." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AUNT   JULIA   AND   ELSIE 

"  Elsie,  my  dear  child,  do  you  know  what 
time  it  is  ?  Nearly  half  past  five,  and  you  haven't 
started  to  dress.  Your  father  will  be  so  an- 
noyed if  you  are  not  ready  when  he  arrives." 

Mrs.  Carleton,  a  small,  fair  woman,  with  a 
rather  worried,  fretful  expression,  paused  in  the 
door-way  of  her  daughter's  room,  and  regarded 
the  delinquent  with  anxiety  not  unmixed  with  dis- 
may. Elsie,  arrayed  in  a  pink  kimono,  was  ly- 
ing comfortably  on  the  sofa,  deep  in  the  pages  of 
an  interesting  story-book.  At  her  mother's 
words  she  threw  down  her  book,  and  rose  with  a 
yawn.  She  was  a  tall  girl  with  dark  eyes  and 
hair,  and  she  would  have  been  decidedly  pretty 
if  she  too  had  not  looked  rather  cross. 

"  Is  it  really  so  late?"  she  said,  indifferently. 
"  Why  didn't  Hortense  call  me  ?  I  had  no  idea 
what  time  it  was." 

"  But  you  ought  to  have  known,  dear,"  Mrs. 
Carleton  protested  gently.  "  I  don't  suppose 
Hortense  knew  you  wanted  to  be  called,  but  I 

91 


92     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

will  ring  for  her  at  once.  You  will  hurry,  won't 
you,  darling?  What  excuse  can  I  possibly  make 
to  your  father  if  he  asks  for  you  and  finds  you 
are  not  ready?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  worry,  Mamma.  You  know  papa 
only  scolds  because  he  thinks  it  his  duty;  he 
doesn't  really  care.  Besides,  the  train  will  prob- 
ably be  late;  those  Western  trains  always  are." 

Mrs,  Carleton  rang  the  bell  for  the  maid, 
whose  room  was  in  a  different  part  of  the  hotel, 
and  went  to  the  closet  in  quest  of  her  daughter's 
evening  dress. 

"  I  will  help  you  till  Hortense  comes,"  she 
said.  "  You  really  must  hurry,  Elsie.  It  is  not 
as  if  your  father  were  coming  alone;  he  will  ex- 
pect you  to  be  ready  to  greet  Marjorie." 

Elsie  shrugged  her  shoulders  indifferently. 

"  As  if  a  girl  who  has  been  living  on  a  cattle 
ranch  in  Arizona  would  care  whether  I  were 
dressed  or  not,"  she  said.  "  Probably  where  she 
comes  from  people  wear  kimonos  all  day  long, 
and  never  even  heard  of  dressing  for  the  even- 
ing." 

Mrs.  Carleton  sighed,  and  the  worried  expres- 
sion deepened  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  I  really  wish,  darling,  that  you  would  try  to 
be  a  little  more  gracious  about  this.     Of  course 


AUNT  JULIA  AND  ELSIE      93 

it  is  a  trial,  but  your  father  has  made  up  his 
mind  that  Marjorie  shall  spend  the  winter  with 
us,  and  it  isn't  going  to  make  things  any 
pleasanter  to  be  constantly  rinding  fault  about 
them." 

"  I  wasn't  finding  fault,"  retorted  Elsie,  who 
had  by  this  time  taken  off  the  kimono,  and  begun 
brushing  out  her  long  hair.  "  I  only  said  Mar- 
jorie Graham  wouldn't  care  a  fig  what  I  had  on, 
and  I  don't  believe  she  will.  I  don't  intend  to  be 
disagreeable  to  her,  but  you  know  what  an  awful 
nuisance  it's  going  to  be,  and  how  I  hate  it. 
Think  of  having  to  take  her  about  everywhere 
with  me,  and  introduce  her  to  all  my  friends." 

"  My  dear,  she  is  your  own  first  cousin.  Be- 
sides, I  am  sure  she  is  a  nice  child  —  your  father 
speaks  so  affectionately  of  her  in  his  letters  — 
and  her  mother  is  a  lovely  woman.  I  was  very 
fond  of  her  when  we  were  girls  together." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  she  is  all  right,"  Elsie  ad- 
mitted grudgingly,  "but  that  doesn't  alter  the 
fact  of  its  being  an  awful  bother  to  have  her 
here  for  a  whole  winter.  You  know  how  papa 
fusses.  He  will  be  sure  to  get  some  idea  in  his 
head  about  my  not  paying  Marjorie  enough  at- 
tention, and  he  will  expect  me  to  take  her  every- 
where.    Oh,  I  hate  it,   I  just  hate  it!"     And 


94    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Elsie's   voice   actually  trembled   with   vexation. 

Mrs.  Carleton  sighed  again. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  dear,"  she  began,  but  the 
entrance  of  the  maid  at  this  moment,  put  an  end 
to  the  conversation,  and  she  left  the  room,  with 
a  final  admonition  to  her  daughter  to  hurry  as 
much  as  possible. 

But  alas !  it  was  too  late  for  hurrying.  Mrs. 
Carleton  had  only  just  entered  the  drawing-room, 
when  she  heard  a  key  turned  in  the  outer  door  of 
the  apartment,  followed  by  the  sound  of  a  famil- 
iar voice  calling  cheerfully  — 

"Julia,  Elsie,  where  are  you?  Here  we  are, 
safe  and  sound !  " 

With  a  rapidly  beating  heart  Mrs.  Carleton 
hurried  forward  to  greet  her  husband  and  his 
niece. 

"  My  dear  Henry,  your  train  must  have  been 
just  on  time,"  she  exclaimed  rather  nervously. 
"  We  had  scarcely  begun  to  expect  you  yet. 
And  so  this  is  Marjorie.  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you,  dear;  I  hope  you  are  not  quite  worn  out 
after  that  dreadful  journey." 

"  I  am  not  the  very  least  bit  tired,"  returned 
a  fresh  young  voice,  and  Marjorie  returned  her 
aunt's  kiss  so  heartily  that  Mrs.  Carleton  was 
rather  startled. 


AUNT.  JULIA  AND  ELSIE      9$ 

"  We  were  twenty  minutes  late,"  Mr.  Carle- 
ton  said,  in  answer  to  his  wife's  remark,  but  he 
kissed  her  affectionately  before  putting  the  ques- 
tion she  was  dreading. 

"  And  where  is  Elsie  ?  " 

"  She  will  be  here  in  a  few  moments,"  Mrs. 
Carleton  explained  hurriedly.  "  Now  do  come 
in  and  have  some  tea,  or  is  it  too  late  for  tea? 
I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  back,  Henry  dear;  we 
have  missed  you  terribly.  I  am  sure  you  must 
be  tired  even  if  Marjorie  isn't." 

"  Not  so  tired  as  hungry;  we  had  a  very  poor 
lunch  on  the  train.  It  is  rather  late  for  tea, 
though;  we  can  have  an  early  dinner  instead. 
Where  is  that  little  witch,  Elsie?  Isn't  she  com- 
ing to  see  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,  dear ;  I  told  you  she  would  be 
here  in  a  few  moments.  Now  I  will  take  Mar- 
jorie to  her  room;  she  will  be  glad  to  wash  off 
some  of  those  horrid  cinders,  I  am  sure."  She 
glanced  as  she  spoke  at  Marjorie's  linen  shirt- 
waist, and  the  straw  hat,  which  certainly  did  not 
look  as  if  it  had  come  from  a  New  York  mil- 
liner. 

"  Am  I  not  to  have  the  same  room  with  Elsie. 
Aunt  Julia?"  Marjorie  inquired,  in  a  tone  of 
some  disappointment,  as  Mrs.  Carleton  led  the 


96    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

way  down  a  long,  narrow  entry,  with  doors  on 
both  sides. 

"  Oh,  no,  dear ;  you  are  to  have  a  nice  little 
room  all  to  yourself.  It  was  so  fortunate  that 
we  had  this  extra  room  in  the  apartment.  We 
intended  using  it  for  guests,  but  when  your  uncle 
wrote  that  he  was  bringing  you  home  with  him, 
we  decided  to  give  it  to  you.,, 

"  Oh,  I  hope  I  am  not  going  to  be  in  the  way," 
said  Marjorie,  blushing.  "  I  had  no  idea  I  was 
to  have  a  room  to  myself,  especially  when  Uncle 
Henry  told  me  you  were  living  in  a  hotel.  I 
wouldn't  in  the  least  mind  rooming  with  Elsie." 

"  But  you  are  not  at  all  in  the  way,"  said  Mrs. 
Carleton,  kindly.  "  We  seldom  have  guests 
staying  with  us,  and  shall  not  need  the  extra 
room.  This  is  Elsie's  room;  yours  is  just  op- 
posite." 

At  that  moment  Elsie's  door  opened,  and  that 
young  lady  emerged,  followed  by  the  French 
maid,  who  was  still  fastening  her  dress.  At 
sight  of  her  cousin  Marjorie  sprang  forward,  and 
before  Elsie  at  all  realized  what  was  happening 
to  her,  two  eager  arms  were  round  her  neck,  and 
she  was  being  hugged  in  a  manner  that  fairly 
took  away  her  breath. 

"  Oh,  Elsie,  I  am  so  glad !  "  cried  Marjorie 


AUNT  JULIA  AND  ELSIE      97 

rapturously.  "  Isn't  it  too  wonderful  and  beauti- 
ful that  we  should  really  meet  at  last?  Do  let 
me  look  at  you;  I  want  to  see  if  you  are  like 
what  I  pictured  you."  And  Marjorie  held  her 
astonished  cousin  off  at  arms'  length,  and  sur- 
veyed her  critically. 

"  What  did  you  expect  me  to  be  like?  "  Elsie 
inquired,  not  without  some  curiosity,  as  she 
gently  extricated  herself  from  Marjorie's  em- 
brace. She  had  taken  in  every  detail  of  her 
cousins  appearance  in  one  glance. 

"  I  don't  exactly  know  —  at  least  it  is  rather 
hard  to  describe,"  said  Marjorie,  with  an  em- 
barrassed laugh.  Something  in  Elsie's  expres- 
sion was  making  her  vaguely  uncomfortable. 
"  I  didn't  think  you  would  be  quite  so  grown  up 
as  you  are." 

"  I  am  nearly  fifteen,"  said  Elsie,  as  if  that 
fact  alone  were  quite  sufficient  to  account  for  her 
"  grown  up "  appearance.  "  Is  Papa  in  the 
drawing-room,  Mamma?  " 

"  Yes,  darling ;  run  and  speak  to  him ;  he  is  ex- 
pecting you.  This  is  your  room,  Marjorie;  I 
hope  you  will  find  it  comfortable." 

"It's  a  beautiful  room,"  declared  Marjorie, 
heartily,  "  only  —  only,  are  you  quite  sure  you 
want  me  to  have  it,  Aunt  Julia?  " 


98     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Carleton,  smiling. 
"  I  suppose  your  trunk  will  be  here  before  long. 
Hortense  will  unpack  for  you,  and  help  you  to 
dress  for  dinner." 

Mar j one's  eyes  opened  wide  in  surprise,  and 
she  glanced  at  the  white-capped  French  maid, 
who  still  lingered  in  the  background. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Aunt  Julia,"  she  said 
politely,  "  but  I  don't  need  any  help;  I  always  do 
everything  for  myself." 

Mrs.  Carleton  looked  a  little  embarrassed. 

"  You  may  go,  Hortense,"  she  said,  turning  to 
the  maid;  "  Miss  Marjorie  will  ring  if  she  wants 
you.  You  mustn't  let  her  think  you  don't  need 
her,  dear,"  she  added  in  a  lower  tone,  as  the 
maid  left  the  room.  "  She  is  rather  inclined  to 
be  lazy,  and  ishe  will  take  advantage  of  you  if 
you  are  too  easy  with  her." 

Marjorie  said  nothing,  but  she  was  both  puz- 
zled and  uncomfortable.  Mrs.  Carleton,  how- 
ever, did  not  appear  to  notice  that  anything  was 
wrong. 

"  I  will  leave  you  for  a  little  while  now,"  she 
said.  "You  must  make  yourself  at  home;  your 
uncle  and  I  want  you  to  be  very  happy  here." 

The  quick  tears  started  to  Marjorie's  eyes,  and 
she  impulsively  held  out  her  hand  to  her  aunt. 


AUNT  JULIA  AND  ELSIE      99 

But  Mrs.  Carleton  did  not  notice  the  gesture,  and 
in  another  moment  she  had  left  the  room,  clos- 
ing the  door  after  her.  In  the  entry  she  en- 
countered Elsie  returning  from  the  interview  with 
her  father.     Elsie  was  not  in  the  best  of  spirits. 

"  Papa  has  sent  me  to  stay  with  Marjorie," 
she  said  in  a  discontented  whisper.  "  He  says 
he  is  afraid  she  is  homesick.  Oh,  Mamma,  did 
you  ever  see  such  clothes  ?  "    * 

"  Never  mind  about  the  clothes,  dear,"  said 
her  mother,  with  forced  cheerfulness ;  "  we  shall 
soon  fit  her  out  with  new  ones.  I  think  she  will 
really  be  quite  pretty  when  she  is  properly 
dressed." 

Elsie  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  made  no 
further  remarks,  and  the  next  moment  she  was 
tapping  at  her  cousin's  door. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come ! "  was  Mar- 
jorie's  joyful  greeting.  "  Now  we  can  have  a 
nice  talk  before  my  trunk  comes.  Sit  down  in 
this  comfortable  chair  and  I'll  take  the  little  one. 
Isn't  this  a  lovely  room,  and  wasn't  it  sweet  of 
your  mother  to  say  she  hoped  I  should  be  happy 
here?  Oh,  I  wonder  if  you  can  possibly  be  one 
half  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I  am  to  see  you." 

Elsie  was  puzzled,  but  she  was  a  little  flattered 
as  well.     She  was  not  a  general  favorite  among 


ioo    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

her  companions,  and  to  find  a  cousin  who  had 
evidently  been  longing  to  make  her  acquaintance 
was  rather  an  agreeable  experience.  So  her  face 
brightened  considerably,  and  her  voice  was  quite 
pleasant  as  she  remarked,  sinking  into  the  com- 
fortable arm-chair  Marjorie  had  indicated  — 

"  It  is  very  interesting  to  meet  you.  I  have 
often  heard  papa  speak  of  you  and  your  mother 
and  father." 

"  Why,  of  course  you  have,"  laughed  Mar- 
jorie, wondering  in  her  simple  way  whether  all 
New  York  girls  of  fifteen  were  as  "  grown  up  " 
as  Elsie.  "  I  don't  believe  though  that  you  have 
thought  half  as  much  about  me  as  I  have  about 
you.  You  see,  it's  different  in  Arizona.  There 
aren't  very  many  people,  and  they  all  live  a  long 
way  from  each  other.  Ever  since  I  can  remem- 
ber I  have  longed  for  a  girl  friend.  But  with 
you  it  must  be  very  different,  going  to  school 
and  living  in  a  big  city.  I  suppose  you  have  lots 
of  friends." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  good  many,"  said  Elsie, 
with  her  little  society  air.  "  I  am  not  very  fond 
of  them  all,  though;  some  girls  are  so  stupid." 

"  I  hope  you  will  like  me,"  said  Marjorie,  a 
little  wistfully.  "  We  ought  to  be  even  more 
than  friends  because  we  are  cousins,  and  I  have 


AUNZ  JULIA  AND  ELSIE     101 

always  thought  that  a  cousin  must  be  the  next 
best  thing  to  a  sister.  Don't  you  often  long  for 
a  sister? " 

"  Why  no,  I  don't,''  Elsie  admitted.  "  Indeed, 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  care  for  one  at  all. 
I  think  being  an  only  child  is  very  pleasant, 
though  of  course  having  an  older  brother  would 
have  its  advantages.  He  would  introduce  one  to 
his  friends  and  bring  them  to  the  house.  Are 
you  fond  of  boys?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  like  them  very  well,  but  I  have 
never  known  many.  In  fact,  I  haven't  known 
many  people  of  any  kind  except  Indians  and 
Mexicans." 

"  Indians  and  Mexicans! "  repeated  Elsie  in  a 
tone  of  dismay.  "(How  perfectly  awful!  You 
don't  mean  that  you  make  friends  of  those  dread- 
ful people  we  saw  on  the  train  coming  home 
from  California,  do  you?" 

"  They  are  not  all  dreadful  creatures,"  said 
Marjorie,  flushing.  "  They  are  not  quite  like 
white  people,  of  course,  but  some  of  them  are 
very  good.  I  know  a  Mexican  boy  who  is  just 
as  bright  and  clever  as  he  can  be.  His  father  is 
going  to  send  him  to  college  next  year.  Then 
there  is  Juanita;  she  has  lived  with  us  for  years, 
and  we  are  all  very  fond  of  her." 


102     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  were  talking  about 
servants,"  said  Elsie.  "  I  thought  you  meant 
friends.     Hadn't  you  any  real  friends  ?" 

"  Not  the  kind  of  friends  you  mean.  I  had 
Father  and  Mother  and  Aunt  Jessie,  but  until 
last  August  when  Undine  came,  I  had  never 
spoken  to  a  white  girl  of  my  own  age." 

"  Undine,  what  a  queer  name.  Is  she  a  Mex- 
ican or  an  Indian?" 

"  She  isn't  either,"  said  Marjorie,  laughing, 
"  and  Undine  isn't  her  real  name.  We  only  call 
her  that  because  we  don't  know  what  her  name 
is.  It's  a  very  interesting  story,  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it,  but  here  comes  my  trunk,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  had  better  unpack  and  change  my  dress 
before  dinner." 

In  spite  of  Marjorie's  reiterated  assurances 
that  she  didn't  need  any  help,  Hortense  reap- 
peared, and  insisted  on  making  herself  useful. 
She  was  very  polite  and  talked  volubly  in  broken 
English  about  Mademoiselle's  being  fatiguer 
and  how  glad  she,  Hortense,  would  be  to  assist 
her  in  every  way,  but  Marjorie  could  not  help 
feeling  uncomfortable,  and  wishing  that  the  well- 
intentioned  maid  would  go  away  and  leave  her 
to  unpack  by  herself.  But  what  made  her  still 
more  uncomfortable  was  the  fact  that  Elsie  also 


AUNT  JULIA  AND  ELSIE     103 

lingered,  and  regarded  every  article  that  came 
out  of  that  modest  leather  trunk,  with  a  keen, 
critical  eye. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear  down  to  din- 
ner?" she  inquired  anxiously  as  the  last  things 
were  being  stowed  away  in  the  bureau  drawers. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie;  "I  hadn't 
thought  about  it.  I  suppose  my  gray  flannel 
suit,  or  else  a  clean  shirt-waist  and  duck  skirt." 

Elsie  clasped  her  hands  in  horror. 

"  Oh,  you  can't,  you  can't  possibly !  "  she  cried 
in  real  dismay.  "  Those  things  will  do  very  well 
for  breakfast  and  luncheon,  but  everybody 
dresses  here  in  the  evening.  Let  me  see  what 
you  can  wear.  You  haven't  got  much,  but  I 
suppose  that  white  muslin  will  do." 

"  But  that  is  my  very  best  dress,"  protested 
Marjorie,  her  cheeks  crimsoning  from  embar- 
rassment and  distress.  "  I  don't  think  Mother 
would  like  to  have  me  wear  it  the  first  evening. 
I  won't  have  anything  left  for  really  grand  oc- 
casions if  I  do." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  said  Elsie,  confidently. 
"  Mamma  is  going  to  buy  you  a  lot  of  new 
clothes;  that  was  all  arranged  before  you  came. 
It  would  never  do  to  have  you  going  about  every- 
where in  these  things." 


104    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Marjorie  glanced  at  her  cousin's  stylish,  well 
fitting  blue  chiffon  and  her  heart  was  filled  with 
dismay.  Was  it  possible  that  all  her  mother's 
and  aunt's  stiches  had  been  taken  in  vain?  It 
was  very  kind  of  Aunt  Julia  to  wish  to  buy  her 
pretty  clothes,  but  she  did  not  like  to  have  her 
present  wardrobe  spoken  of  as  "  those  things." 
Before  she  had  time  to  say  any  more  on  the  sub- 
ject, however,  Mrs.  Carleton  appeared,  to  tell 
them  to  hurry,  as  her  husband  was  impatient  for 
his  dinner. 

That  first  dinner  in  the  big  crowded  hotel  res- 
taurant was  a  wonderful  revelation  to  Marjorie. 
The  bright  lights,  the  gay  music,  the  ladies  in 
their  pretty  evening  dresses,  it  was  all  like  a 
vision  of  fairyland,  and  for  the  first  few  min- 
utes she  could  do  nothing  but  gaze  about  her  and 
wonder  if  she  were  awake. 

"And  do  you  really  know  all  these  people?" 
she  whispered  to  Elsie,  when  they  were  seated  at 
one  of  the  small  tables,  and  a  waiter  had  taken 
their  order. 

"  Good  gracious,  no,"  laughed  Elsie,  who  was 
beginning  to  find  this  unsophisticated  Western 
cousin  decidedly  amusing.  "  We  don't  know  one 
of  them  to  speak  to." 

Marjorie's  eyes  opened  wide  in  astonishment. 


AUNT  JULIA  AND  ELSIE     105 

"  How  very  strange/'  she  said.  "  I  supposed 
people  who  lived  in  the  same  house  always  knew 
each  other.  We  know  everybody  at  home,  even 
if  they  live  ten  miles  away." 

"  Well,  this  isn't  Arizona,  you  know,"  said 
Elsie,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  and  Marjorie, 
feeling  as  if  she  had  somehow  been  snubbed,  re- 
lapsed into  silence. 

Just  then  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  and  a  boy  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen  came  in,  and  took  their  seats 
at  an  opposite  table.  Elsie,  who  had  appeared 
quite  indifferent  to  all  the  other  guests,  instantly 
began  to  show  signs  of  interest. 

"  There  they  are,"  she  said  eagerly,  addressing 
her  mother.  "  The  gentleman  is  with  them 
again  to-night,  too.  I  forgot  to  tell  you, 
Mamma;  I've  found  out  their  name,  it's  Ran- 
dolph." 

"  How  did  you  find  out?"  Mrs.  Carleton 
asked,  beginning  to  look  interested  in  her 
turn. 

"  Lulu  Bell  told  me  to-day  walking  home  from 
school.  That  boy  passed  us  on  the  Avenue,  and 
I  asked  her  if  she  didn't  think  he  was  handsome. 
She  said  she  knew  who  he  was,  though  she  had 
never  met  him.  His  uncle  is  a  Dr.  Randolph, 
and  a  friend  of  her  father's.     This  boy  and  his 


106    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

mother  are  from  Virginia,  and  are  spending  the 
winter  here.  He  is  a  freshman  at  Columbia,  and 
his  mother  doesn't  want  to  be  separated  from 
him,  because  she  is  a  widow,  and  he  is  her  only 
child.  Lulu  says  Dr.  Randolph  has  asked  her 
mother  to  call  on  his  sister-in-law.  He  said  they 
had  taken  an  apartment  at  this  hotel  for  the  win- 
ter. I  made  Lulu  promise  to  introduce  me  if 
she  ever  had  the  chance,  but  she  may  never  even 
meet  him.  She  is  such  a  queer  girl ;  she  doesn't 
care  the  least  bit  about  boys." 

"  A  very  sensible  young  person,  I  should  say," 
remarked  Mr.  Carleton,  dryly.  "  How  old  is 
your  friend  Lulu  ?  " 

"  Nearly  fourteen ;  quite  old  enough  to  be  in- 
terested in  something  besides  dolls,  but  she's 
dreadfully  young  for  her  age." 

"  I  wish  some  other  little  girls  were  young  for 
their  age,"  said  Mr.  Carleton ;  "  it  doesn't  appear 
to  be  a  common  failing  in  these  days." 

Elsie  flushed  and  looked  annoyed. 

"  That  boy  really  has  a  very  nice  face,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Carleton,  anxious  to  change  the  subject, 
"  and  his  devotion  to  his  mother  is  charming.  I 
suppose  her  husband  must  have  died  recently; 
she  is  in  such  deep  mourning." 

While    the    others    were    talking,    Marjorie, 


AUNT  JULIA  AND  ELSIE     107 

whose  eyes  had  been  wandering  rapidly 
from  one  group  to  another,  had  finally  fixed 
themselves  upon  the  party  at  the  opposite  table. 
They  certainly  looked  attractive;  the  gentleman 
with  the  strong,  clever  face,  and  hair  just  turn- 
ing gray;  the  pretty,  gentle  little  mother  in  her 
black  dress,  and  the  handsome  college  boy,  with 
merry  blue  eyes.  It  was  quite  natural  that  Elsie 
should  want  to  know  them,  but  why  in  the  world 
didn't  she  speak  to  them  herself  without  waiting 
to  be  introduced?  It  seemed  so  strange  and  in- 
hospitable to  live  in  the  same  house  with  people 
and  not  speak  to  them.  So  when  her  aunt  had 
finished  her  remarks  about  the  Randolph  family, 
she  turned  to  Elsie  and  inquired  innocently : 

"If  you  want  to  know  that  boy  so  much  why 
don't  you  tell  him  so?  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  astonished  silence; 
then  Elsie  giggled. 

"  You  are  the  funniest  girl  I  ever  met,  Mar- 
jorie,"  she  said.  "  Why  don't  you  do  it  your- 
self?" 

"  Elsie,"  said  her  mother  in  a  tone  of  shocked 
reproof,  and  turning  to  Marjorie,  she  added 
gravely : 

"  When  you  have  been  in  New  York  a  little 
longer,  my  dear,  you  will  learn  that  it  is  not  the 


io8     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

proper  thing  for  young  girls  to  speak  to  strangers 
to  whom  they  have  not  been  introduced.5' 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  snub  this  time, 
and  poor  Mar j one  was  horribly  embarrassed. 
She  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  her  uncle,  but  he 
appeared  to  be  absorbed,  and  finding  no  help  from 
Elsie  either,  she  relapsed  into  silence,  and  did  not 
speak  again  for  at  least  five  minutes. 

After  all,  that  first  evening  could  scarcely  be 
called  a  success.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carleton  were 
very  kind,  and  Elsie  seemed  disposed  to  be 
friendly,  but  Marjorie  was  conscious  of  a  sensa- 
tion of  disappointment  for  which  she  could 
scarcely  account  even  to  herself.  She  struggled 
bravely  against  the  homesickness  which  threat- 
ened every  moment  to  overwhelm  her,  and  tried 
to  take  an  interest  in  all  her  new  relatives'  con- 
versation, but  when  dinner  was  over,  and  they 
had  gone  upstairs  again,  she  was  not  sorry  to 
avail  herself  of  Aunt  Julia's  suggestion  that  she 
must  be  "  quite  worn  out,"  and  slip  quietly  off 
to  bed.  It  was  not  easy  to  dispense  with  the 
services  of  Hortense,  who  showed  an  alarming 
tendency  to  linger  and  offer  to  assist,  but  even 
she  was  finally  disposed  of,  and  with  a  sigh  of  in- 
tense relief,  Marjorie  closed  her  door,  switched 
off  the  electric  light,  and  crept  into  bed.     Then 


AUNT  JULIA  AND  ELSIE    109 

followed  a  good  hearty  cry,  which  somehow  made 
her  feel  better,  and  then,  being  young  and 
very  tired  as  well,  she  fell  into  a  sound,  healthy 
sleep,  from  which  she  did  not  awaken  until  it  was 
broad  daylight. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MARJORIE  TAKES  A   MORNING   WALK 

When  Marjorie  opened  her  eyes  the  next 
morning,  she  lay  for  some  minutes  thinking  over 
the  events  of  the  previous  day,  and  listening  to 
the  unusual  noise  in  the  street.  There  was  so 
much  noise  that  she  began  to  fear  it  must  be  very 
late,  and  jumping  out  of  bed,  she  went  to  look 
at  the  clock.  It  was  only  just  half-past  six. 
She  had  forgotten  to  ask  at  what  hour  the  fam- 
ily breakfasted,  but  seven  o'clock  was  the  usual 
breakfast  time  at  the  ranch,  so  she  decided  that 
it  might  be  well  to  dress  as  speedily  as  possible. 
She  felt  very  wide  awake  indeed  this  morning, 
and  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  not  had 
a  walk  or  ride  since  leaving  home. 

"  I'll  get  Elsie  to  come  with  me  for  a  good 
long  tramp  after  breakfast,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  If  she  can't  go  on  account  of  school,  I'll  ask 
Uncle  Henry  to  let  me  walk  with  him  to  his  of- 
fice, and  I  can  come  back  by  myself." 

Greatly  to  Marjorie's  relief,  no  Hortense  ap- 
no 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK    in 

peared  with  offers  of  assistance,  and  she  per- 
formed her  morning  toilet  in  peace.  She  put  on 
the  gray  flannel  suit,  which  Elsie  had  pronounced 
"  good  enough  for  breakfast  and  luncheon,"  and 
then  once  more  glancing  at  the  clock,  discovered 
that  it  was  still  only  five  minutes  past  seven. 

"  If  they  breakfast  at  seven  I  shall  be  only 
five  minutes  late,"  she  said,  with  a  feeling  of  sat- 
isfaction; "I  should  have  hated  to  be  late  the 
first  morning.  Perhaps  they  won't  have  it  till 
half-past,  and  then  I  shall  have  time  to  write  a 
few  lines  to  Mother  first." 

She  opened  her  door,  and  crossed  the  hall  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  her  aunt  had  told  her 
the  family  usually  breakfasted,  in  preference  to 
going  downstairs  to  the  restaurant,  but  somewhat 
to  her  surprise,  she  found  the  room  just  as  she 
had  left  it  on  the  previous  evening,  and  the  whole 
apartment  seemed  very  quiet.  She  went  to  one 
of  the  windows  and  looked  out. 

"  What  a  lot  of  people  there  are  in  the  street," 
she  remarked  reflectively,  "  and  they  all  seem  in 
such  a  hurry.  I  wonder  where  they  are  going. 
How  pretty  the  park  is.  Oh,  how  I  should  love 
a  gallop  on  Roland  before  breakfast." 

The  door  behind  her  opened,  and  a  woman 
with  a  duster  in  her  hand  came  in.     She  looked 


ii2     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

very  much  surprised  at  finding  the  room  occu- 
pied. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Marjorie,  with  her 
friendly  smile;  "  it's  a  lovely  day,  isn't  it?  " 

"  It's  very  pleasant,"  returned  the  chamber- 
maid, still  looking  surprised.  "  You  are  up 
early,  Miss,"  she  added  politely. 

"  Am  I?  "  said  Marjorie,  surprised  in  her  turn. 
"  I  didn't  know  I  was.  At  what  time  do  my 
aunt  and  uncle  generally  have  breakfast?" 

"  Never  before  half -past  eight,  and  sometimes 
later.  Mrs.  Carleton  generally  has  her  breakfast 
in  bed,  but  Mr.  Carleton  and  the  young  lady  have 
theirs  in  here." 

"  Half-past  eight,"  repeated  Marjorie  in  dis- 
may, "  and  it's  only  a  little  after  seven  now.  I 
should  say  I  was  early." 

The  maid  smiled,  and  began  dusting  the  orna- 
ments without  making  any  further  remarks. 
She  did  not  appear  to  be  a  very  communicative 
person,  and  Marjorie  decided  that  she  might  as 
well  go  back  to  her  room,  and  write  the  letter  to 
her  mother,  which  could  now  be  a  much  longer 
one  than  she  had  at  first  intended.  But  on  the 
way  she  suddenly  changed  her  mind. 

"  I  can  write  later  just  as  well,"  she  decided, 
"  and  it  really  is  much  too  beautiful  to  stay  in- 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK    113 

doors.  I'll  go  and  have  a  walk  in  that  lovely 
park.  I  shall  feel  much  more  like  breakfast  when 
I've  had  some  fresh  air  and  exercise." 

Marjorie  had  not  the  least  idea  that  she  was 
doing  anything  unusual  as  she  ran  lightly  down 
the  broad  marble  stairs  five  minutes  later,  and 
stepped  out  through  the  open  street  door  into  the 
fresh  morning  air.  The  Carleton's  apartment 
was  on  the  fifth  floor,  but  Marjorie  scorned  to 
use  the  lift,  which  had  struck  her  the  evening 
before,  as  a  very  wonderful  but  unnecessary  in- 
vention. 

Several  people  in  the  hall  looked  at  her  curi- 
ously, and  a  man  in  brass  buttons  asked  her  if 
he  should  call  a  cab. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  said  Marjorie,  pleas- 
antly; "I'm  going  for  a  walk,"  and  she  passed 
out,  without  another  backward  glance.' 

It  really  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  Mar- 
jorie drew  in  long  deep  breaths  of  the  keen  au- 
tumn air,  as  she  crossed  the  broad  avenue  and 
entered  the  park.  She  was  not  disappointed  in 
her  first  impression  that  the  park  was  beautiful, 
and  the  further  she  walked  among  the  trees  and 
broad  asphalt  paths,  the  more  attractive  it  be- 
came. It  was  the  last  of  October,  but  the  au- 
tumn had  been  a  warm  one,  and  the  grass  was  al- 


ii4    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

most  as  green  as  in  summer.  To  Marjorie,  ac- 
customed all  her  life  to  the  arid  prairie,  where 
trees  and  flowers  were  practically  unknown,  it  all 
seemed  very  wonderful,  and  she  enjoyed  every 
step.  She  walked  rapidly  on  for  some  distance, 
paying  no  particular  attention  to  the  direction 
she  was  taking.  The  possibility  of  getting  lost 
never  once  entered  her  mind.  She  met  very  few 
people,  and  they  all  seemed  in  a  hurry,  and 
looked  like  men  and  women  on  their  way  to  their 
day's  work.  Once  she  passed  a  forlorn-looking 
man  asleep  on  a  bench,  and  remembered  what 
Undine  had  once  said  about  a  tramp.  This  must 
be  a  tramp,  she  felt  sure,  and  she  paused  to  re- 
gard him  with  interest  as  a  new  specimen  of  hu- 
manity. 

Suddenly  she  came  to  a  standstill  and  looked 
about  here.  She  was  in  a  quiet  path,  with  rocks 
on  both  sides,  and  there  was  not  a  soul  in  sight. 

"  I  must  turn  back,"  she  said,  with  an  uncom- 
fortable recollection  of  the  passing  of  time.  "  I 
was  enjoying  my  walk  so  much  I  never  realized 
how  far  I  was  going,  but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have 
to  hurry  now  if  I  don't  want  to  be  late  for  break- 
fast." 

Accordingly  she  turned  her  steps  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  she  had  come,  and  walked  on 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK    115 

rapidly  for  several  minutes.  But  alas!  she  had 
taken  more  than  one  turn  since  entering  the  park, 
and  going  back  was  no  such  easy  matter  as  she 
had  imagined.  The  more  she  tried  to  remember 
the  way  she  had  come,  the  more  bewildered  she 
became. 

"  I  declare,  I  believe  I  am  lost ! "  she  said  at 
last,  with  a  feeling  of  amused  dismay.  "  I  must 
be  more  careful  to  notice  where  I  am  going  next 
time.  Oh,  there  is  one  of  those  men  in  uniform, 
that  Uncle  Henry  said  were  policemen.  He  will 
be  able  to  tell  me  if  I'm  going  right." 

She  quickened  her  steps,  and  approaching  the 
officer,  inquired  politely: 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  if  this  is  the  way  to 
the  entrance  ?  " 

"Which  entrance?"  inquired  the  policeman, 
regarding  her  curiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie;  "the  entrance 
I  came  in  —  are  there  more  than  one?  " 

"A  good  many  more;  which  avenue  do  you 
want?" 

Marjorie's  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  rather 
fast.  For  the  moment  she  could  not  remember; 
even  the  name  of  the  hotel  —  which  she  had 
only  heard  once  or  twice  —  had  escaped  her 
recollection. 


u6    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  I  have  forgotten  the  name  of  the  street,"  she 
said  helplessly,  "  but  it's  the  entrance  opposite 
the  big  hotel." 

The  policeman  looked  uncertain,  but  at  that 
moment  a  young  man  riding  a  bicycle  appeared 
upon  the  scene,  at  sight  of  whom  Marjorie's  face 
brightened,  and  she  uttered  a  little  gasp  of  relief. 

"  That  young  gentleman  knows,"  she  ex- 
claimed joyfully,  and,  quite  forgetful  of  her 
aunt's  snub  of  the  evening  before,  she  darted 
forward,  and  hailed  the  youth  on  the  bicycle 
quite  as  if  she  had  been  an  old  friend. 

"  Oh,  please  excuse  me  for  stopping  you,"  she 
cried,  eagerly,  "  but  you  know  where  I  want  to 
go,  and  I  have  forgotten  the  name  of  the  hotel." 

The  young  man  brought  his  bicycle  to  a  stand- 
still; sprang  to  the  ground,  and  snatched  off  his 
cap.  He  was  evidently  very  much  surprised,  but 
too  polite  to  show  it. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  a  very  pleas- 
ant voice;  "  can  I  be  of  any  assistance  to  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  frankly.  "  I  saw  you 
in  the  hotel  dining-room  last  night,  and  I  heard 
my  cousin  say  you  lived  there.  I  came  out  for 
a  walk  before  breakfast,  and  —  it's  very  stupid  I 
suppose  —  but  I  can't  find  my  way  back  to  the 
entrance  where  I  came  in." 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK    117 

A  look  of  comprehension  came  into  the 
young  man's  pleasant  face,  and  he  regarded 
Marjorie  with  interest  not  unmixed  with 
amusement. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said ;  "  you  are  staying  at 
the  '  Plaza,'  and  want  to  go  back  there." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  name,"  said  Marjorie,  look- 
ing much  relieved;  "  will  you  please  show  me  the 
way  to  the  gate?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  her  new  acquaintance,  smil- 
ing, and  he  at  once  began  to  lead  the  way,  push- 
ing his  bicycle  along  beside  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  want  to  get  on  your  wheel 
again?"  Marjorie  inquired  anxiously.  "I  can 
easily  follow  if  you  don't  go  too  fast." 

The  young  man  protested  that  he  had  ridden 
quite  long  enough,  and  would  be  glad  of  a  little 
walk. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Marjorie,  heartily. 
"It  was  very  stupid  of  me  to  lose  my  way;  I 
never  was  lost  before." 

"  And  do  you  often  walk  here  in  the  park  ?  " 
her  new  friend  inquired,  politely. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  was  never  here  before.  I  only 
came  to  New  York  yesterday ;  my  home  is  in  Ari- 


zona." 


"  You  have  come  a  long  distance,"  he  said. 


n8     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  And  how  do  you  like  New  York  —  that  is  to 
say  as  much  as  you  have  seen  of  it?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  very  noisy  and  rather  smoky, 
but  the  hotel  is  beautiful,  and  so  is  this  park. 
I  haven't  seen  much  of  New  York  yet,  but  I  am 
going  to  spend  the  winter  here." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you  as  to  the  noise  and 
smoke,"  said  her  companion,  smiling,  "  but  New 
York  is  a  pretty  jolly  place  notwithstanding.  It 
isn't  my  home  either;  I  am  from  Virginia." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are,"  said  Marjorie,  inno- 
cently. "  You  came  here  to  go  to  college,  and 
your  mother  is  with  you.  My  cousin  told  us  all 
about  it  last  evening  at  dinner." 

The  young  man  laughed  outright.  It  was 
such  a  merry  laugh  that  Marjorie  could  not  help 
joining  in  it,  and  after  that  they  were  excellent 
friends. 

"  Now  I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  telling 
me  how  your  cousin  obtained  her  information," 
Marjorie's  new  friend  said  when  he  had  recov- 
ered his  gravity.  "  I  haven't  met  her,  have  I  ? 
What  is  her  name?" 

"  Elsie  Carleton.  No,  she  hasn't  met  you  yet, 
but  she  wants  to  very  much.  A  friend  of  hers 
has  promised  to  introduce  you  if  she  has  a  chance. 
Your  name  is  Randolph,  isn't  it?" 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK     119 

"  Yes,  Beverly  Randolph,  at  your  service.  I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  meet  your  cousin,  I  am  sure. 
Perhaps  you  will  introduce  us." 

"  Of  course  I  will  if  you  like.  It  seems  very 
queer  not  to  know  a  person  who  lives  in  the  same 
house  with  one,  but  Elsie  says  they  don't  know 
any  of  the  people  at  the  hotel.  It  was  all  so  dif- 
ferent at  home." 

Then  Beverly  Randolph  asked  some  questions 
about  Arizona,  which  set  Marjorie  off  on  a  de- 
scription of  the  ranch,  and  her  life  there,  which 
lasted  until  they  reached  the  Fifth  Avenue  en- 
trance. 

"  That's  the  gate  I  came  in,"  exclaimed  Mar- 
jorie. "  I  wasn't  so  far  away,  after  all.  Would 
you  mind  telling  me  what  time  it  is?  " 

Beverly  Randolph  took  out  his  watch. 

"  Ten  minutes  past  nine,"  he  said,  looking 
somewhat  dismayed  in  his  turn ;  "  I  had  no  idea 
it  was  so  late.  Luckily  it  is  Saturday,  so  there 
are  no  recitations  to  miss." 

"  O  dear!  I  am  afraid  I  am  terribly  late  for 
breakfast,"  said  Marjorie,  feeling  very  much 
ashamed  of  herself.  And  without  another  word, 
they  hurried  across  the  avenue,  and  entered  the 
hotel,  where  the  very  first  person  Marjorie  saw  in 
the  entrance  hall  was  her  uncle. 


120     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Henry,  I  am  so  sorry  to  be  late !  " 
she  cried  remorsefully,  springing  to  Mr.  Carle- 
ton's  side.  "  I  hope  you  and  Aunt  Julia  aren't 
annoyed  with  me." 

"  Where  in  the  world  have  you  been,  Mar- 
jorie?"  her  uncle  demanded,  ignoring  the  latter 
part  of  her  remark.  He  was  looking  decidedly 
annoyed  as  well  as  worried. 

"  Why,  I  got  up  early,"  Marjorie  explained, 
"  and  the  girl  who  was  dusting  said  you  never 
had  breakfast  before  half-past  eight,  so  I  thought 
I  would  go  for  a  walk  in  the  park.  I  got  lost, 
and  couldn't  remember  the  name  of  the  hotel, 
but  fortunately,  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  be  a 
little  frightened,  I  met  Mr.  Beverly  Randolph, 
and  he  brought  me  home." 

"  And  who  is  Beverly  Randolph  ?  I  had  no 
idea  you  had  friends  in  New  York." 

"  Oh,  he  isn't  exactly  a  friend  —  at  least  he 
wasn't  till  this  morning.  You  know  who  he  is, 
Uncle  Henry;  that  nice-looking  boy  Elsie  was 
talking  about  at  dinner  last  night.  Wasn't  it 
fortunate  I  recognized  him.  He  is  just  as  nice 
as  he  can  be,  and  I'm  going  to  introduce  him  to 
Elsie." 

"  Come  upstairs  at  once,"  said  Mr.  Carleton, 
a  trifle  less  sternly.     "  We  have  been  very  anx- 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK     121 

ious  about  you;  you  must  never  do  such  a  thing 
again." 

Marjorie  was  dumb  with  astonishment.  Be- 
yond being  late  for  breakfast  she  had  no  idea 
that  she  had  done  anything  wrong.  She  fol- 
lowed her  uncle  in  silence,  and  did  not  utter  an- 
other word  until  they  had  reached  their  own 
apartment,  where  they  found  Mrs.  Carleton  in  a 
condition  bordering  on  hysteria,  and  Elsie  trying 
to  look  solemn,  but  secretly  rather  enjoying  the 
situation.  "  I  should  really  think,  Marjorie,  that 
you  might  have  known,"  said  Mrs.  Carleton  in  a 
tone  of  deep  reproach,  when  she  had  heard  her 
niece's  explanation,  "  your  own  common  sense 
should  have  told  you  that  to  go  wandering  off 
by  yourself  in  a  strange  city  at  seven  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  was  a  most  extraordinary  thing  to 
do.  You  must  never  again  go  out  alone  at  any 
hour.     Elsie  has  never  been  out  without  a  maid." 

Marjorie's  eyes  opened  wide  in  amazement. 

"Not  go  out  alone?"  she  repeated  stupidly. 
"  Why  I've  always  gone  everywhere  by  myself 
ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"  Well,  you  are  not  to  do  it  here,  whatever  you 
may  have  done  in  Arizona,"  said  Mrs.  Carleton, 
crossly.  "  As  for  speaking  to  a  strange  young- 
man,  and  getting  him  to  bring  you  home,  I  really 


i22     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

never  heard  of  anything  so  outrageous.  We  have 
been  frightened  to  death  about  you." 

"  There,  there,  Julia,"  put  in  Uncle  Henry, 
"  don't  you  think  you  have  said  enough  ?  I  am 
sure  Marjorie  will  never  do  such  a  thing  again; 
she  will  soon  be  accustomed  to  New  York  ways. 
Now  suppose  you  let  the  child  have  some  break- 
fast ;  she  looks  about  ready  to  drop." 

But  it  was  not  want  of  food  that  had  driven 
the  color  from  Marjorie's  cheeks  and  the  light 
from  her  eyes.  Indeed,  she  had  but  small  appe- 
tite for  the  tempting  breakfast  that  was  set  be- 
fore her,  and  it  was  only  by  a  mighty  effort  that 
she  was  able  to  keep  back  the  burst  of  homesick 
tears  which  threatened  every  moment  to  over- 
power her. 

At  the  same  moment  that  Mrs.  Carleton  was 
administering  her  reproof  to  Marjorie,  Beverly 
Randolph  was  giving  his  mother  an  account  of 
the  morning's  adventure,  as  they  sat  together  at 
breakfast  in  their  pleasant  sitting-room  on  the 
floor  below. 

"  I  know  you  would  like  the  little  girl, 
Mother,"  he  ended ;  "  she  is  such  a  natural,  jolly 
sort,  and  there  isn't  one  bit  of  nonsense  about 
her." 

Mrs.  Randolph  smiled  as  she  poured  her  son's 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK    123 

coffee,  and  regarded  him  with  proud,  loving 
eyes. 

"  You  never  have  admired  the  '  sort '  with  non- 
sense about  them,  have  you,  dear  ? "  she  said 
rather  mischievously. 

"  I  haven't  any  use  for  them,"  said  Beverly 
with  decision.  "  I  like  girls  well  enough  when 
they  behave  decently,  but  the  silly  giggly  ones 
get  on  my  nerves.  This  one  —  Marjorie  Gra- 
ham she  says  her  name  is  —  is  all  right,  though. 
I  think  I  know  the  cousin  by  sight,  and  I  don't 
feel  so  sure  about  her." 

"  You  mustn't  be  too  fastidious,  Beverly,"  said 
his  mother,  laughing.  "  I  dare  say  they  are  both 
nice  little  girls.  By  the  way,  I  have  received  an 
invitation  from  that  charming  Mrs.  Bell,  who 
called  the  other  day,  asking  us  both  to  dine  with 
her  next  Tuesday.  Her  husband  is  an  old  friend 
of  Uncle  George's,  you  know.  Mrs.  Bell  told 
me  she  had  a  daughter  of  thirteen  or  fourteen,  so 
that  will  be  another  acquaintance  for  you." 

"  Well,  if  she  is  like  most  of  the  New  York 
girls  I've  seen  I  sha'n't  care  much  about  her,"  de- 
clared Beverly.  "  I  prefer  the  ones  that  come 
from  Arizona.  Honestly,  Mother,  I  want  you  to 
meet  that  little  girl.  I  don't  know  what  it  was 
about  her,  but  she  reminded  me  of  Babs." 


124     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  Mrs.  Randolph's  sweet 
face,  but  her  voice  was  still  quite  cheerful  as  she 
answered  — 

"  Very  well,  dear,  be  sure  to  introduce  her  to 
me ;  I  want  to  know  all  your  friends." 

As  soon  as  she  could  escape  from  her  rela- 
tives after  breakfast,  Marjorie  fled  to  her  own 
room,  there  to  have  her  cry  out,  and  pull  herself 
together,  before  starting  on  a  shopping  expedition 
with  her  aunt.  Elsie  was  going  to  lunch  with  a 
schoolmate,  but  Aunt  Julia  had  ordered  the  car- 
riage and  told  Marjorie  that  she  intended  devot- 
ing the  day  to  shopping. 

"  You  are  to  begin  school  on  Monday,"  she 
explained,  "and  I  must  get  you  some  decent 
clothes  as  soon  as  possible." 

Marjorie  supposed  she  ought  to  be  grateful, 
but  she  could  not  help  resisting  the  fact  that  her 
aunt  evidently  did  not  consider  her  present  ward- 
robe "  decent,"  and  this,  added  to  her  other 
troubles,  resulted  in  a  very  unhappy  half -hour. 
But  Marjorie  was  a  plucky  girl,  and  she  had 
plenty  of  common  sense. 

"  I  won't  write  a  word  about  all  this  to  Mother 
or  Aunt  Jessie,"  she  decided  as  she  dried  her 
eyes.  "  It  wouldn't  do  any  good,  and  they  would 
be  so  sorry.     I  am  sure  Aunt  Julia  means  to  be 


MARJORIE  TAKES  A  WALK    125 

kind,  and  I  suppose  I  did  frighten  them,  but  it 
does  seem  so  silly  not  to  be  allowed  to  go  out  for 
a  walk  by  one's  self." 

She  had  just  bathed  her  red  eyes,  and  was  sit- 
ting down  to  write  the  deferred  letter  to  her 
mother,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Elsie  came 
in. 

"  Mamma  says  you  are  to  be  ready  to  go  out 
with  her  in  fifteen  minutes,"  she  began,  then 
paused,  regarding  her  cousin  curiously.  "  You 
look  as  if  you'd  been  crying,"  she  said  abruptly. 
"  Mamma  did  pitch  into  you  pretty  hard,  but  it 
was  an  awfully  queer  thing  to  go  out  by  your- 
self at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  I  did  what  was  wrong,"  said 
Marjorie,  "  but  I  "had  no  idea  any  one  would  ob- 
ject. I  often  go  for  a  gallop  on  my  pony  be- 
fore breakfast  at  home." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  you  do,  but  that  is  very  dif- 
ferent. I  think  it  was  too  funny  that  you  should 
have  met  Beverly  Randolph.  Do  tell  me  what  he 
is  like." 

"  He  is  very  nice  indeed,"  said  Marjorie, 
frankly;  "  I  liked  him  ever  so  much." 

"  You'll  be  sure  to  introduce  us,  won't  you  ? 
It  will  be  such  fun  to  tell  Lulu  Bell  I've  met  him 
first ;  not  that  she'll  care  much,  she's  such  a  baby. 


126     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Mamma  thinks  she  may  call  on  Mrs.  Randolph 
to  thank  her." 

"  What  does  she  want  to  thank  her  for?  "  in- 
quired Marjorie,  innocently. 

"  Why,  for  her  son's  bringing  you  home,  and 
being  so  kind  to  you.  You  might  have  been  lost 
for  hours  if  he  hadn't  done  it." 

"  But  his  mother  had  nothing  to  do  with  that," 
persisted  Marjorie.  "  Besides,  he  was  on  his 
way  home,  anyway.  He  was  very  nice,  but  I 
don't  see  what  there  is  to  thank  his  mother  for." 

Elsie  reddened,  and  looked  a  little  annoyed. 

"  Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter,"  she  said  care- 
lessly. "Mamma  would  like  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Randolph,  and  this  makes  a  good  excuse,  that's 
all.  She  says  the  Randolphs  of  Virginia  are  a 
very  old  family.  Now  hurry  and  get  ready ;  the 
carriage  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

Marjorie  said  no  more  on  the  subject,  but  she 
was  puzzled.  It  was  only  natural  that  Aunt 
Julia  should  wish  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a 
lady  who  lived  in  the  same  house  with  her,  but 
why  was  it  necessary  to  have  an  excuse  for  do- 
ing so?  She  was  beginning  to  think  that  there 
were  going  to  be  a  great  many  new  things  to  learn 
in  New  York. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEW    FRIENDS    AND    NEW    FASHIONS 

"  November  6th: 
"Dearest  Aunt  Jessie: 

"  I  am  at  home  alone  this  evening ;  Uncle 
Henry  and  Aunt  Julia  have  gone  out  to  dinner, 
and  Elsie  is  at  a  party.  I  am  going  to  write  you 
a  long,  long  letter,  and  try  to  tell  you  every  single 
thing  that  has  happened. 

"  I  have  been  here  just  a  week,  and  I  think  I 
am  beginning  to  get  more  accustomed  to  things. 
It  is  all  very  interesting,  but  some  of  it  does  seem 
a  little  queer,  and,  oh,  how  I  do  wish  I  could  have 
a  good  talk  with  Mother  or  you,  and  ask  you  to 
explain  the  things  I  don't  understand.  Aunt 
Julia  is  very  kind,  but  I  could  never  talk  to  her 
as  I  do  to  you  and  Mother.  The  things  that 
puzzle  me  most  are  what  it  is  proper  to  do  and 
what  isn't.  For  one  thing,  they  say  it  isn't  proper 
to  speak  to  people  unless  one  has  been  introduced. 
At  home  we  always  speak  to  every  one  whether 
127 


128     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

they  are  in  the  '  Social  Register '  or  not.  The 
Social  Register  is  a  book,  and  Elsie  says  the 
names  of  all  the  nice  people  are  in  it,  and  when 
her  mother  wants  to  find  out  who  people  are,  and 
whether  or  not  she  wants  to  have  Elsie  know 
them  she  just  looks  for  their  names  in  the  Social 
Register,  and  if  she  finds  them  there  she  knows 
they  are  all  right.  Then  it  isn't  considered 
proper  for  girls  to  go  out  by  themselves  in  New 
York.  I  have  seen  some  nice-looking  girls  alone 
in  the  streets,  but  Elsie  says  they  can't  be  the 
kind  one  wants  to  know.  Hortense,  the  French 
maid,  always  goes  out  with  Elsie  and  me,  and 
even  carries  our  books  to  school  for  us.  Hor- 
tense is  very  nice,  but  it  is  rather  a  bother  having 
her  always  about,  and  she  wants  to  do  a  great 
many  more  things  for  me  than  I  really  need. 
But  the  greatest  difficulty  of  all  is  that  Elsie  isn't 
fond  of  walking,  and  I  do  miss  my  tramps  dread- 
fully. We  walk  to  school  and  back  every  day, 
but  it  isn't  far,  and  in  the  afternoon  Elsie  is  al- 
ways having  engagements.  So  I  go  driving  with 
Aunt  Julia,  and,  oh,  but  it  does  seem  slow !  Aunt 
Julia  hates  to  drive  fast,  and  I  sometimes  feel  as 
if  I  would  give  anything  to  jump  out  of  the  car- 
riage and  have  one  good  run.  I  know  I  could 
easily  keep  up  with  those  horses  if  it  were  only 


NEW  FRIENDS  129 

proper  to  run  behind  the  carriage,  but  of  course  it 
isn't. 

"  I  ought  not  to  object  to  going  out  with  Aunt- 
Julia,  for  she  has  been  very  good  to  me.  She  is 
having  some  perfectly  lovely  dresses  made  for 
me,  and  has  bought  me  two  simply  wonderful 
hats.  I  am  not  sure  whether  Mother  would  quite 
approve  of  all  my  new  clothes.  Some  of  them 
do  look  very  grown-up,  but  then  the  girls  here 
are  all  much  more  grown-up  than  I  had  any  idea 
they  would  be.  Elsie  puts  up  her  hair,  and 
wanted  me  to  put  mine  up,  too,  but  I  knew 
Mother  wouldn't  like  it,  and  Uncle  Henry  said  I 
was  right. 

"  I  have  been  at  school  every  day  since  Mon- 
day, and  like  it  very  much  indeed.  It  is  not  a 
large  school,  only  a  class  of  twelve  girls.  The 
teacher's  name  is  Miss  Lothrop,  and  Elsie  and 
several  of  the  other  girls  have  been  going  to  her 
since  they  were  quite  little.  Miss  Lothrop  is 
lovely,  and  all  the  girls  have  been  very  kind  and 
polite  to  me.  The  two  I  like  best  are  Lulu  Bell 
and  Winifred  Hamilton.  Elsie  says  they  are 
both  very  young  for  their  age,  and  I  think  per- 
haps that  is  the  reason  I  like  them  better  than 
some  of  the  others.  Winifred  is  only  thirteen, 
but  she  is  just  as  sweet  as  she  can  be,  and  Lulu 


i3o    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

is  awfully  pretty,  and  a  great  favorite.  Carol 
Hastings  is  another  girl  in  the  class,  and  Elsie's 
most  intimate  friend.  She  is  only  fourteen,  but 
seems  much  older.  I  wonder  why  New  York 
girls  seem  to  care  so  much  about  boys.  I  like 
a  nice  boy  ever  so  much  myself,  but  I  can't  see 
the  use  of  giggling  and  looking  silly  every  time 
his  name  is  mentioned.  Carol  Hastings  came 
here  to  dinner  last  night,  and  when  Beverly  Ran- 
dolph came  over  to  our  table  to  speak  to  us,  she 
was  so  silly  I  was  really  ashamed  of  her.  I 
spoke  to  Elsie  about  it  afterwards,  and  she  said 
Carol  was  a  goose,  but  I  think  she  is  a  little  bit 
silly  herself  sometimes.  I  wrote  Mother  all 
about  Beverly  Randolph,  and  how  much  I  liked 
him.  I  would  give  anything  to  have  a  brother 
just  like  him.  He  adores  his  mother,  and  I  don't 
wonder,  for  she  is  lovely.  He  says  she  is  so 
jolly,  and  is  always  interested  in  everything  he  is 
interested  in ;  even  the  college  games.  His  father 
died  when  he  was  little,  and  I  suppose  this  is  one 
reason  why  he  and  his  mother  are  so  much  to 
each  other.  There  is  an  uncle,  who  is  a  doctor, 
but  he  only  comes  to  dine  with  them  sometimes, 
and  lives  somewhere  else.  Mrs.  Randolph  has 
one  of  the  sweetest  faces  I  have  ever  seen  — 
yours   and   Mothers   excepted  —  and   she   looks 


NEW  FRIENDS  131 

very  young  to  be  the  mother  of  a  big  boy  of 
eighteen.  She  dresses  in  black,  and  looks  rather 
sad  sometimes,  but  I  suppose  that  is  when  she  is 
thinking  of  her  husband. 

"  Elsie  is  very  clever,  and  Aunt  Julia  admires 
her  tremendously.  She  says  Elsie  has  always 
been  the  brightest  girl  in  her  classes  and  that  she 
recites  Shakespeare  quite  wonderfully.  I  haven't 
heard  her  recite  yet,  but  she  plays  the  piano  very 
well,  and  takes  music  lessons  twice  a  week.  She 
speaks  French,  too,  and  is  beginning  to  study  Ger- 
man. Of  course  I  am  not  nearly  as  far  advanced 
as  she  is,  but  Miss  Lothrop  says  I  am  not  back- 
ward for  my  age,  and  that  makes  me  very  happy. 
I  was  so  proud  when  she  asked  me  if  I  had  a 
governess  at  home,  and  I  told  her  Father  and 
Mother  had  taught  me  everything  I  knew.  I 
don't  think  Elsie  liked  my  saying  that;  she  says 
I  mustn't  talk  about  our  being  poor,  but  I  am  sure 
I  can't  see  why  she  should  object.  However,  I 
have  promised  to  try  not  to  say  anything  she 
doesn't  like;  they  have  all  been  so  good  to  me 
that  I  do  want  to  please  them  if  I  can. 

"  Last  Tuesday  was  Aunt  Julia's  birthday,  and 
she  gave  a  family  dinner  party.  She  has  a  good 
many  relatives,  and  they  all  came.  I  should  think 
Elsie  would  love  having  so  many  cousins,  but  she 


132     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

says  she  doesn't  care  very  much  about  many  of 
them.  Aunt  Julia's  two  sisters  were  here,  and  I 
thought  the  oldest  one  —  Mrs.  Lamont  —  was 
lovely.  Her  daughter,  Miss  Annie,  came  with 
her,  and  she  was  awfully  nice  and  jolly.  She  is 
quite  old  —  about  twenty-five  I  think  —  and  she 
works  downtown  in  a  settlement.  I  didn't  know 
what  a  settlement  was,  but  Elsie  explained  that 
it  is  a  place  where  ladies  go  to  live  among  very 
poor  ignorant  people,  and  try  to  help  them.  She 
and  her  mother  send  some  of  their  old  clothes 
to  Miss  Lamont,  and  she  gives  them  to  the  poor 
women  at  the  settlement.  Aunt  Julia's  other 
sister  is  Mrs.  Ward.  She  is  quite  stout,  and 
talks  a  great  deal  about  what  is  good  for  her  to 
eat  and  what  isn't.  She  was  nice,  but  I  didn't 
like  her  as  much  as  the  Lamonts.  Her  husband 
is  fat,  too,  and  is  always  saying  funny  things  that 
make  people  laugh.  They  have  two  little  girls, 
but  they  were  not  allowed  to  come  because  Tues- 
day was  a  school  night,  and  they  are  never  al- 
lowed to  go  out  anywhere  except  on  Fridays  and 
Saturdays.  Elsie  can  go  out  any  night  she  likes, 
because  she  is  so  clever  that  Aunt  Julia  says  it 
doesn't  matter  whether  she  misses  her  lessons  one 
day  or  not.  There  is  a  Ward  boy,  too,  but  he  is 
at  Yale.     Elsie  likes  him  best  of  all  her  cousins, 


NEW  FRIENDS  133 

and  she  says  he  is  very  fond  of  her,  too.  Aunt 
Julia  says  all  the  boys  admire  Elsie  very  much, 
but  I  think  she  is  mistaken  about  Beverly  Ran- 
dolph. He  has  such  an  honest  face  that  he  can't 
hide  his  feelings,  and  when  Elsie  and  Carol  gig- 
gled so  much  that  night,  and  talked  so  very 
grown-up,  I  am  sure  he  was  trying  not  to  laugh. 

"  You  can't  begin  to  imagine  how  glad  I  was 
to  get  your  and  Mother's  precious  letters.  I  read 
them  over  and  over  until  I  almost  knew  them  by 
heart,  and  slept  with  Mother's  first  one  under  my 
pillow  all  night.  Father's  letter  was  splendid 
too,  and  I  was  so  interested  to  hear  all  about  the 
new  colts.  I  am  so  glad  Undine  is  proving  such 
a  comfort.  I  knew  you  couldn't  help  loving  her, 
she  is  such  a  dear,  and  she  promised  to  try  to 
take  my  place.  I  told  the  girls  at  school  about 
her,  and  they  thought  it  the  most  interesting  thing 
they  had  ever  heard.  Lulu  Bell  says  she  is  go- 
ing to  tell  her  aunt,  who  is  an  authoress,  about  it, 
and  ask  her  to  put  Undine  in  a  book.  Won't  it 
be  too  interesting  if  she  really  does? 

"  O  dear!  there  is  the  clock  striking  ten,  and 
I  have  been  writing  ever  since  half -past  eight. 
I  must  stop  now,  and  go  to  bed,  or  I  shall  be 
sleepy  to-morrow  morning.  Ten  o'clock  at  night 
used  to  seem  very  late  indeed  at  home,  but  it 


134    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

seems  quite  early  here.  Elsie  doesn't  expect  to 
get  home  from  her  party  before  half  past  eleven. 
Uncle  Henry  doesn't  approve  of  late  hours  for 
school-girls,  but  Aunt  Julia  says  everybody  in 
New  York  keeps  them,  so  it  can't  be  helped.  I 
forgot  to  say  the  party  is  at  Bessie  Winston's. 
She  is  one  of  the  girls  at  Miss  Lothrop's,  and  one 
of  Elsie's  intimate  friends.  I  was  invited,  too, 
but  Aunt  Julia  wouldn't  let  me  accept,  because 
my  new  dresses  haven't  come  home  yet.  Elsie 
says  I  wouldn't  have  enjoyed  it,  anyway,  because 
I  can't  dance.  She  goes  to  a  dancing  class  every 
Saturday  morning,  and  Aunt  Julia  says  she  may 
have  me  go  too  after  Christmas.  I  think  I 
should  like  dancing,  for  the  sake  of  the  exercise 
if  nothing  else.  Oh,  how  I  do  long  for  exer- 
cise! Elsie  rides  in  summer,  but  her  pony  is  at 
their  country  place  on  Long  Island,  and  they 
don't  think  it  worth  while  to  bring  it  in  to  New 
York.  Aunt  Julia  says  Elsie  has  so  many  other 
things  to  do  in  winter  she  has  no  time  for  riding. 
What  wouldn't  I  give  for  one  good  canter  on 
Roland !  I  can't  help  envying  the  girls  I  see  rid- 
ing in  the  park,  though  none  of  them  look  as  if 
they  were  enjoying  it  as  much  as  I  should.  They 
all  ride  side-saddle,  and  I  don't  believe  it  can  be 


NEW  FRIENDS  135 

nearly  as  pleasant  as  riding  astride,  but  Aunt 
Julia  told  me  not  to  say  so,  because  it  isn't  con- 
sidered the  thing  to  ride  astride  here.  I  saw 
Beverly  Randolph  riding  in  the  park  this  after- 
noon, and  he  really  did  look  as  if  he  enjoyed  it. 
His  home  is  in  Virginia,  and  he  says  the  people 
there  are  very  fond  of  horses.  Lulu  says  Mrs. 
Randolph  owns  a  large  plantation,  and  I  sup- 
pose a  plantation  is  something  like  a  ranch. 

"  Now  I  really  must  stop  writing,  for  my  hand 
is  getting  tired,  and  I  have  made  two  big  blots 
on  this  page.  So  good  night,  Auntie  darling. 
If  I  could  send  all  the  love  that  is  in  my  heart, 
I  am  afraid  no  postman  would  be  able  to  carry 
the  letter,  it  would  be  so  heavy.  So  you  must 
just  imagine  it  is  there.  I  am  really  very  happy, 
though  I  can't  help  feeling  homesick  sometimes, 
especially  at  night.  I  am  going  to  work  hard, 
and  try  to  learn  so  much  this  winter  that  you  will 
all  be  proud  of  me  when  I  come  home.  I  have 
already  begun  counting  the  weeks;  there  are 
just  twenty-eight  and  a  half  till  the  first  of  June. 
A  winter  does  seem  a  very  long  time,  but  this 
week  has  gone  by  faster  than  I  expected.  I  will 
write  to  Mother  on  Sunday,  and  your  next  let- 
ters ought  to  be  here  by  Monday.     Letters  are 


136    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

the  best  thing  in  the  world  when  one  is  so  far 
away  from  home,  so  please  all  write  just  as  often 
as  you  can  to 

"  Your  own  loving 

"  Marjorie." 


CHAPTER  XI 

MARJORIE  ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE 

"  The  most  glorious  thing  is  going  to  happen, 
Marjorie,"  announced  Elsie,  as  her  cousin  came 
into  the  drawing-room  to  breakfast  one  Novem- 
ber morning,  about  two  weeks  after  the  writing 
of  that  long  letter  to  Aunt  Jessie. 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  Marjorie,  regarding 
Elsie's  radiant  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  with  in- 
terest. Elsie  was  not,  as  a  rule,  a  very  enthu- 
siastic young  person. 

"  The  most  delightful  invitation  you  ever  heard 
of,"  Elsie  explained  with  a  glance  at  the  letter 
her  mother  was  reading.  "  It's  from  my  cousin 
Percy  Ward.  You  know  he's  a  sophomore  at 
Yale,  and  he  wants  Mamma  and  me  to  come  to 
New  Haven  for  the  football  game  next  Saturday. 
It's  the  big  Yale-Harvard  game,  you  know,  and 
I've  been  simply  crazy  to  go,  but  it's  almost  im- 
possible to  get  tickets.  It  really  was  angelic  of 
Percy  to  get  two  for  us,  and  he  wants  us  to  come 
up  on  Friday  afternoon  so  we  can  go  to  the  dance 
137 


138     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

that  evening.  He  has  engaged  a  room  for  us  at 
the  hotel." 

"  It  must  be  wonderful  to  see  a  great  match 
like  that,"  declared  Marjorie,  with  hearty  ap- 
preciation of  her  cousin's  good  fortune.  "  I 
have  seen  pictures  of  the  college  games,  and 
Father  always  reads  the  football  news  in  the 
papers.  He  is  a  Harvard  man  himself,  you 
know,  and  used  to  be  on  the  team." 

"  I'm  sorry  you  can't  go  with  us,"  said  Elsie, 
regretfully,  "  but  of  course  Percy  couldn't  get 
more  than  two  tickets.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't 
enjoy  it  much,  though.  It  can't  be  much  fun 
unless  you  know  a  lot  of  the  boys.  Percy  is  such 
a  dear;  he  is  sure  to  introduce  me  to  all  his 
friends." 

"  I  wish  your  father  had  not  gone  to  Wash- 
ington on  that  tiresome  business  just  now,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Carleton,  laying  down  her  nephew's 
letter,  and  looking  a  little  worried.  "  I  should 
have  liked  to  consult  him  before  answering 
Percy." 

"  Why,  Mamma,  you  surely  don't  think  he 
would  object !  "  cried  Elsie  in  dismay.  "  What 
possible  reason  could  he  have  for  not  wanting  us 
to  go?" 

"  Oh,  no  reason  whatever,  of  course,  dear.     I 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       139 

was  only  thinking  of  Marjorie.  I  am  not  sure 
that  he  would  like  the  idea  of  her  being  left  here 
alone  while  we  are  away." 

"  Oh,  bother!  Marjorie  won't  mind  —  will 
you,  Marjorie?  Besides,  she  needn't  be  alone; 
Hortense  can  sleep  in  my  room,  and  it's  only  for 
one  night." 

"  Please  don't  worry  about  me,  Aunt  Julia," 
said  Marjorie,  blushing.  "  I  shall  get  on  all 
right,  I  am  sure,  and  it  would  be  terrible  to  have 
you  and  Elsie  miss  the  game  on  my  account.  I 
can  have  my  meals  up  here  while  you  are  away, 
and  go  out  with  Hortense." 

But  Mrs.  Carleton  did  not  look  quite  sat- 
isfied. 

"  You  are  very  sweet  and  unselfish,  dear,"  she 
said,  "  but  I  wish  Percy  had  bought  another 
ticket ;  then  we  could  have  taken  you  with  us.  I 
cannot  bear  to  disappoint  Elsie,  so  I  suppose  I 
shall  have  to  accept  the  invitation,  though  I  dis- 
like the  idea  of  leaving  you  behind,  especially  at 
a  time  when  your  uncle  is  away,  too." 

So  the  matter  was  settled,  and  as  soon  as  break- 
fast was  over  Mrs.  Carleton  sat  down  to  write 
her  note  of  acceptance,  while  the  two  girls 
started  for  school,  accompanied  as  usual  by  Hor- 
tense.    Elsie  was  in  high  spirits,  and  entertained 


140     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

her  cousin  with  a  vivid  description  of  the  delight 
and  excitement  of  a  college  football  match. 

"  Not  that  I  have  ever  seen  one  myself/'  she 
explained.  "  Papa  hates  crowds,  and  has  al- 
ways said  it  was  too  difficult  to  get  tickets,  and 
last  year  Percy  couldn't  get  any  either,  being  only 
a  freshman.  Carol  Hastings  has  been,  though, 
and  she  told  me  she  was  never  so  excited  in  her 
life.  The  Bells  are  going  this  year,  and  have  in- 
vited Winifred  Hamilton  and  Gertie  Rossiter  to 
go  with  them.  I  can't  see  why  they  want  to  take 
Winifred;  she  is  such  a  baby,  and  I  don't  believe 
a  boy  will  notice  her ;  but  she  and  Lulu  are  such 
chums,  one  never  seems  able  to  go  anywhere 
without  the  other." 

"  Beverly  Randolph  and  his  mother  are  going, 
too,"  said  Marjorie,  who  was  making  a  great  ef- 
fort to  keep  down  the  feeling  of  envious  long- 
ing, and  to  show  a  real  interest  and  sympathy  in 
her  cousin's  anticipations.  "  He  told  me  so  yes- 
terday. His  uncle,  Dr.  Randolph,  is  going  to 
take  them  in  his  automobile." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  I  heard  him  talking  about  it. 
I  must  be  sure  to  tell  him  Mamma  and  I  are  go- 
ing, so  he  will  look  us  up.  Oh,  here  come  Bes- 
sie and  Carol ;  I  must  tell  them  the  good  news." 

Percy  Ward's   letter   arrived   on  Wednesday 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       141 

morning,  and  on  Friday  afternoon  soon  after 
luncheon,  Mrs.  Carleton  and  Elsie  departed  for 
New  Haven.  Mr.  Carleton  had  been  called  to 
Washington  on  business,  and  was  not  expected 
home  before  Saturday  night.  Aunt  Julia  was 
very  kind,  and  kissed  Marjorie  with  more  af- 
fection than  usual. 

"  I  really  hate  to  leave  you/'  she  said  regret- 
fully. "If  it  were  not  for  the  disappointment  it 
would  have  been  to  Elsie,  I  would  never  have  ac- 
cepted.    I  hope  you  will  not  be  very  lonely.'' 

"  Oh,  no,  I  won't,"  promised  Marjorie  cheer- 
fully. She  was  really  touched  by  her  aunt's 
solicitude,  and  had  almost,  if  not  quite,  succeeded 
in  banishing  the  feelings  of  envy  and  disappoint- 
ment. "  I've  got  some  hard  lessons  for  Mon- 
day, and  I  want  to  have  them  all  perfect,  so  I  can 
write  Mother  that  I  haven't  missed  in  any  of  my 
classes  for  a  week.  Then  Hortense  says  she  likes 
walking,  so  we  can  have  some  fine  long  tramps. 
To-morrow  night  will  be  here  before  I've  begun 
to  realize  that  you  are  away." 

But  despite  her  cheerful  assurances,  Marjorie's 
heart  was  not  very  light  when  she  accompanied 
her  aunt  and  cousin  to  the  lift,  and  saw  them 
start,  Elsie's  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  even 
Aunt  Julia  looking  as  if  she  had  not  altogether 


142     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

outgrown  her  interest  in  a  football  game.  She 
went  slowly  back  to  her  own  room,  and  taking  up 
her  Greek  history,  determined  to  forget  present 
disappointment,  and  spend  the  next  hour  with  the 
Greek  heroes.  But  to  make  up  one's  mind  to  do 
a  thing,  and  to  carry  out  one's  good  intentions 
are  two  very  different  matters.  Marjorie  con- 
scientiously tried  to  fix  her  thoughts  on  "  The 
Siege  of  Troy,"  but  the  recollection  of  Elsie's 
radiant  face  kept  obtruding  itself  between  her 
eyes  and  trie  printed  page,  and  at  the  end  of  half 
an  hour  she  threw  down  her  book  in  despair. 

"  There  isn't  any  use,"  she  said  to  herself,  with 
a  sigh ;  "  I  can't  remember  a  single  date.  I'll 
ring  for  Hortense,  and  ask  her  to  take  me  for  a 
walk.  Perhaps  by  the  time  we  come  back  my 
wits  will  have  left  off  wool-gathering,  and  I  shall 
have  a  good  long  evening  for  studying  and  writ- 
ing letters." 

Hortense  was  quite  ready  for  a  walk,  and 
really  the  afternoon  was  much  less  forlorn  than 
Marjorie  had  anticipated.  The  French  maid  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  the  little  Western  girl,  who  was 
always  kind  and  friendly  in  her  manner,  and  did 
not  —  as  she  told  a  friend  —  treat  her  as  if  she 
were  "settlement  tine  machine."  Elsie  never 
talked  to  Hortense  during  their  walks,  but  this 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       143 

afternoon  Marjorie  was  longing  for  companion- 
ship, and  she  and  the  maid  chatted  together  like 
old  friends.  They  were  both  young  and  far 
away  from  home,  and  perhaps  that  fact  had  a 
good  deal  to  do  towards  drawing  them  together. 
Marjorie  was  always  glad  to  talk  of  her  life  on 
the  ranch,  and  Hortense  told  in  her  turn  of  the 
little  French  village,  where  she  had  spent  her 
childhood,  and  of  the  widowed  mother  and  little 
brothers  and  sisters,  to  whom  she  sent  more  than 
half  of  her  earnings.  She  spoke  in  broken  Eng- 
lish, with  here  and  there  a  French  expression 
thrown  in,  but  Marjorie  had  no  difficulty  in  un- 
derstanding, and  her  interest  and  sympathy  for 
the  plucky  little  French  girl,  who  had  left  home 
and  friends  to  earn  her  own  living,  grew  rapidly. 

They  took  a  long  walk,  for  Hortense  was  al- 
most as  fond  of  tramping  as  Marjorie  herself, 
and  it  was  almost  dusk  when  they  at  last  came  in 
sight  of  the  big  hotel.  Then  Hortense  suddenly 
remembered  an  errand  she  had  to  do  for  Mrs. 
Carleton,  and  Marjorie  —  who  was  not  in  the 
least  tired  —  declared  her  intention  of  accom- 
panying her. 

"  It  is  not  far,"  the  maid  explained;  "  only  to 
Sixth  Avenue.  We  shall  not  be  more  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour." 


144    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

The  errand  accomplished  they  turned  their 
steps  in  a  homeward  direction,  and  were  about 
half  way  up  Fifty-seventh  Street,  on  their  way  to 
the  Plaza,  when  Marjorie's  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  a  horse  and  cart,  which  had  come  to  a 
standstill  only  a  few  feet  in  front  of  them.  The 
cart  was  loaded  with  boxes  and  packages,  and  the 
horse,  which  was  a  mere  skeleton,  and  looked  as 
if  his  working  days  had  long  been  over,  had  evi- 
dently completely  given  out.  The  driver,  a  boy 
of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  had  sprung  down  from 
his  seat,  and  was  endeavoring  to  discover  the 
cause  of  the  trouble. 

"  Oh,  look,  Hortense,"  cried  Marjorie,  her 
quick  sympathies  instantly  aroused,  "  look  at  that 
poor  horse.  He  isn't  strong  enough  to  drag  that 
heavy  wagon,  with  all  those  boxes  in  it.  Oh, 
what  a  shame !  That  boy  mustn't  beat  him  so  — 
he  mustn't!"  And  before  the  horrified  maid 
could  interpose,  impulsive  Marjorie  had  sprung' 
forward  to  remonstrate. 

"  Stop  beating  that  horse,"  she  commanded, 
with  flashing  eyes ;  "  can't  you  see  he  isn't  able 
to  go  any  farther  with  that  load  ?  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  to  load  a  poor  creature  like  that  in 
such  a  way!  " 

The  boy  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  in  stupid 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       145 

amazement ;  then  an  ugly  look  came  into  his  face. 
He  gave  one  quick  glance  up  and  down  the  street, 
to  make  sure  there  was  no  policeman  in  sight; 
and  turned  on  Marjorie  with  rough  fury. 

"  You  leave  me  alone,  will  you  ?  It  ain't  none 
of  your  biz  what  I  do  with  this  here  horse/' 
And  before  the  indignant  Marjorie  could  protest 
he  had  again  laid  the  whip  lash  sharply  across  the 
poor  animal's  back. 

Then  for  one  moment  Marjorie  forgot  every- 
thing —  forgot  that  she  was  in  the  streets  of  a 
big  city  —  forgot  all  Aunt  Julia's  lectures  and 
Elsie's  warnings  —  and  with  one  quick  movement 
she  seized  the  whip  handle,  trying  with  all  her 
strength  to  drag  it  away  from  the  boy.  She  was 
strong,  but  her  antagonist  was  stronger,  and  the 
end  of  that  momentary  struggle  was  a  sharp  cry 
of  pain  from  Marjorie,  a  muttered  imprecation 
from  the  driver,  and  in  another  second  he  had 
sprung  into  his  seat,  and  horse  and  wagon  were 
clattering  away  down  the  street. 

"  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  Mademoiselle,"  gasped 
Hortense,  seizing  Marjorie's  arm,  and  fairly 
trembling  with  fright  and  horror;  "how  could 
you  do  such  a  terrible  thing?  A  young  lady  to 
fight  with  a  canaille!  Oh,  what  will  Madame 
say  when  she  hears  ?  " 


146    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  He  is  a  wicked,  cruel  boy,"  panted  Mar- 
jorie;  "  he  ought  to  be  arrested.  He  is  killing 
that  poor  old  horse." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  he  is  cruel,  a  beast,  but  young 
ladies  must  not  interfere  with  such  things.  You 
might  have  been  hurt.  Let  us  go  home  quickly; 
I  am  near  to  faint.  Thank  Heaven  no  one  saw. 
Madame  would  never  forgive  such  a  disgrace." 

"  But  some  one  ought  to  interfere,"  protested 
Marjorie,  her  wrath  beginning  to  cool,  "  and 
there  wasn't  anybody  else  to  do  it.  I  would 
have  taken  that  whip  away  from  him  if  I  could, 
but  he  was  so  strong,  and  he  has  hurt  my  wrist." 

"  Hurt  your  wrist !  Let  me  see.  Ah,  but  it  is 
red.  How  could  you  have  held  on  so  tight? 
Come  home  quickly,  and  we  will  bathe  it  with 
arnica.  How  fortunate  that  Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  Elsie  are  away!  Ah,  here  comes 
the  young  gentleman,  Mademoiselle  Elsie's  friend 
from  the  hotel ;  he  must  not  know  that  anything 
is  wrong." 

But  Marjorie  had  no  intention  of  keeping  her 
indignation  to  herself,  and  she  turned  to  greet 
Beverly  Randolph  with  eyes  that  flashed  and 
cheeks  that  tingled. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Randolph,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the 
young  man  smilingly  took  off  his  hat,  and  paused 


With  One  Quick  Movement  She  Seized  the  Whip  Handle. 
—  Page  145. 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       147 

beside  her,  "  the  most  dreadful  thing  has  hap- 
pened. A  cruel,  wicked  boy  has  been  ill-treat- 
ing a  poor  old  horse.  The  poor  creature  had  a 
terribly  heavy  load,  and  when  he  refused  to  go 
any  further,  the  boy  beat  him,  and — " 

"Where  is  he?"  inquired  Beverly,  his  own 
eyes  beginning  to  flash.  "  I'll  report  the  case  to 
the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Ani- 
mals." 

"  He  has  gone,"  said  Marjorie,  regretfully. 
"  He  gave  the  horse  a  dreadful  cut  with  the  whip, 
and  it  was  so  frightened  it  started,  and  then  he 
jumped  into  the  wagon  and  went  off.  I  tried  to 
get  the  whip  away  from  him,  but  he  was  terribly 
strong,  and  he  hurt  my  wrist  so  much  I  had  to 
let  go." 

Beverly  Randolph's  face  was  a  mixture  of  as- 
tonishment, amusement  and  horror. 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  tackled  the  fellow 
yourself?"  he  demanded  incredulously. 

Marjorie  nodded.  Now  that  the  excitement 
was  over  she  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  startled 
at  what  she  had  done. 

"I  had  to,"  she  said  humbly;  "there  wasn't 
any  one  else  to  do  it.  Hortense  thinks  it  was 
very  unladylike,  but  I  don't  see  what  else  I  could 
have  done.     I  couldn't  just  stand  by  and  do  noth- 


i48     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

ing  while  that  poor  horse  was  being  ill-treated." 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  you  could,"  said  Bev- 
erly, smiling.  "  I  don't  think  I  would  do  it 
again,  though;  you  might  get  hurt.  Hello! 
what's  the  matter?  —  don't  you  feel  well?  " 

For  Marjorie  had  suddenly  grown  very  pale, 
and  leaned  against  the  lamp-post. 

"  It's  —  it's  my  wrist,"  she  faltered;  "  it  hurts 
dreadfully,  and  —  and  I  think  I  feel  a  little 
faint." 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  Beverly  drew 
the  girl's  arm  through  his. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  peremptorily,  and 
without  another  word  he  conducted  the  wounded 
soldier  back  to  the  hotel.  Marjorie,  too,  was  si- 
lent ;  the  pain  in  her  wrist  was  very  bad,  and  she 
had  to  bite  her  lips  hard  to  keep  back  the  rising 
tears.  Hortense,  still  covered  with  shame  and 
confusion,  followed  close  behind.  At  the  door 
of  the  lift  Beverly  paused. 

"  Is  your  aunt  at  home  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  No,"  said  Marjorie,  unsteadily;  "she  and 
Elsie  have  gone  to  New  Haven  for  the  football 
game." 

"To  be  sure  they  have ;  I  had  forgotten. 
Your  cousin  told  me  they  were  going  this  after- 
noon.    Well,  I  think  I  will  take  you  to  our  apart- 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       149 

ment.     My  mother  is  used  to  sprains  and  bruises, 
and  will  know  what  to  do  for  your  wrist." 

Marjorie  protested  that  she  could  not  think  of 
disturbing  Mrs.  Randolph,  but  Beverly,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  accustomed  to  having  his  own  way, 
remained  firm,  and  in  the  end  his  companion  was 
forced  to  yield,  much  to  the  distress  and  horror 
of  Hortense,  who  considered  that  the  story  was 
already  known  to  more  persons  than  Mrs.  Carle- 
ton  would  approve. 

Mrs.  Randolph  and  her  brother-in-law  were 
having  tea  in  the  former's  pretty  sitting-room, 
when  the  door  was  unceremoniously  flung  open, 
and  Beverly  appeared  on  the  threshold,  leading  in 
a  trembling,  white-faced  girl,  who  immediately 
collapsed  into  the  nearest  chair,  and  looked  as 
if  she  were  about  to  faint. 

"  It's  Miss  Marjorie  Graham,  Mother,"  Bev- 
erly explained,  "  and  she  has  hurt  her  wrist. 
Her  aunt  is  away,  so  I  brought  her  in  here.  Oh, 
here's  Uncle  George;  what  luck!  This  is  my 
uncle  Dr.  Randolph,  Miss  Marjorie;  he  is  a  sur- 
geon, you  know,  and  he'll  fix  you  up  in  no 
time." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will  if  I  can,"  said  a  pleasant 
voice,  not  unlike  Beverly's.  "  Let  me  see  what 
the  trouble  is.     Ah,  this  is  the  hand,  isn't  it?" 


iio    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

And  Marjorie  felt  her  wrist  taken  in  firm,  kind 
fingers.  She  winced  at  the  touch,  but  the  doc- 
tor's next  words  were  reassuring. 

"I  see;  only  a  slight  sprain,  nothing  serious. 
Have  you  some  arnica,  Barbara,  and  some  linen 
that  I  can  use  for  a  bandage?  " 

"How  did  it  happen,  dear?"  Mrs.  Randolph 
inquired  sympathetically,  as  Marjorie  leaned  back 
in  her  chair,  with  a  sigh  of  intense  relief,  and 
the  doctor  applied  a  cooling  lotion  to  her  aching 
wrist. 

Marjorie's  cheeks  were  crimson  again,  but  not 
for  a  moment  did  she  hesitate  about  telling  the 
truth.  Beverly  had  gone  off  to  his  own  room, 
having  left  his  charge  in  safe  hands. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  my  own  fault,"  she  said, 
honestly.  "  I  saw  a  boy  ill-treating  a  poor  old 
horse,  and  tried  to  stop  him  by  getting  the  whip 
away  from  him,  but  he  was  much  stronger  than 
I,  and  in  the  struggle  I  suppose  he  must  have 
twisted  my  wrist.  I  am  afraid  your  son  and  my 
aunt's  maid  both  think  I  was  very  unladylike." 

Mrs.  Randolph  and  the  doctor  exchanged 
amused  glances,  and  the  latter  said  kindly: 

"  I  wish  more  people  were  moved  by  the  same 
spirit,  though  I  don't  know  that  I  should  advise 
young  girls  to  attack  rough  drivers.     I  imagine 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       151 

you  have  not  been  very  long  in  New  York  or  you 
would  be  accustomed  to  such  sights." 

"No,"  said  Marjorie,  much  relieved,  "I 
have  only  been  in  New  York  three  weeks.  My 
home  is  on  a  ranch  in  Arizona,  but  I  have  been 
accustomed  to  horses  all  my  life.  I  think  my 
father  would  almost  kill  any  boy  who  dared  to 
treat  one  of  ours  like  that." 

"I  daresay  he  would.  Your  father  raises 
horses,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  cattle,  too.  I  have  lived  on  the 
ranch  ever  since  I  was  two  years  old,  and  New 
York  seems  very  strange  in  some  ways." 

"  It  must,"  said  Dr.  Randolph  gravely,  but  his 
eyes  twinkled,  and  Marjorie  felt  sure  he  was  try- 
ing not  to  laugh.  "  There,  I  think  the  wrist  will 
do  nicely  now.  You  can  wet  this  bandage  again 
in  an  hour,  and  if  I  am  not  mistaken  the  pain  will 
be  gone  by  that  time.  I  must  be  going  now,  Bar- 
bara; I  have  two  patients  to  see  before  dinner. 
I'll  call  for  you  and  Beverly  in  the  car  at  nine  to- 
morrow morning;  that  will  give  us  plenty  of  time 
to  make  New  Haven  before  lunch."  And  with  a 
hurried  leave-taking  the  doctor  departed,  leaving 
Mrs.  Randolph  and  Marjorie  alone  together. 

The  next  half -hour  was  a  very  pleasant  one. 
Mrs.  Randolph  would  not  allow  the  girl  to  go 


152     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

back  to  her  own  apartment  until  the  pain  in  her 
wrist  had  subsided,  and  she  made  her  lie  on  the 
sofa,  and  petted  her  in  a  way  that  recalled  Mother 
and  Aunt  Jessie  so  strongly  that  Marjorie  had 
some  difficulty  in  keeping  back  the  homesick  tears. 
Almost  before  she  knew  it,  she  was  chatting  away 
to  this  new  acquaintance  as  if  they  had  been  old 
friends. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  get  accustomed  to  New  York 
ways  soon,"  she  said  humbly.  "  I  am  afraid  I 
make  a  great  many  mistakes,  and  they  distress 
my  aunt  and  cousin  very  much.  You  see,  it  is  all 
so  different  on  the  ranch.  I  suppose  your  son 
told  you  how  I  spoke  to  him  that  morning  in  the 
park,  and  asked  him  to  take  me  home.  It  seemed 
quite  a  natural  thing  to  do,  because  I  knew  he 
lived  in  this  hotel,  but  Aunt  Julia  was  dreadfully 
shocked." 

Mrs.  Randolph  laughed. 

"  Beverly  was  not  at  all  shocked,"  she  said. 
"  He  and  I  have  rather  old-fashioned  ideas  about 
some  things ;  we  like  little  girls  to  be  natural." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  think  me  a  little  girl  still," 
said  Marjorie  in  a  sudden  burst  of  confidence. 
"  All  the  girls  here  seem  so  grown-up,  and  I 
don't  want  to  grow  up  just  yet;  I  am  only  four- 
teen." 


ENGAGES  IN  BATTLE       153 

"  My  little  girl  would  have  been  just  about 
your  age  if  she  had  lived,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph, 
with  a  rather  sad  smile.  "  I  am  sure  I  should 
not  have  begun  to  think  of  her  as  grown-up 
yet/' 

Marjorie  was  interested.  She  would  have 
liked  to  ask  Mrs.  Randolph  about  her  little  girl, 
but  feared  the  subject  might  be  a  painful  one, 
and  just  that  moment  Beverly  came  back,  and 
the  conversation  turned  on  other  matters.  In  a 
little  while  Marjorie  rose  to  go. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said  to 
Mrs.  Randolph.  "  My  wrist  feels  ever  so  much 
better  already.  I  do  hope  I  haven't  been  a 
bother." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Mrs.  Randolph  declared, 
laughing.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  have  enjoyed 
your  call  very  much,  and  I  hope  you  will 
come  often,  for  I  am  very  fond  of  little  girls. 
By  the  way,  what  are  you  going  to  do  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie;  "walk 
and  read  and  study,  I  suppose.  Aunt  Julia  said 
I  might  drive  in  the  afternoon,  but  the  horses 
go  so  slowly  I  always  feel  as  though  I  should 
like  to  get  out  of  the  carriage  and  run.  Gal- 
loping over  the  prairie  is  much  more  fun." 


154    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Mrs,  Randolph  and  her  son  both  laughed,  and 
Beverly  remarked  rather  indignantly: 

"  It's  a  shame  you  couldn't  have  gone  to  the 
game  with  the  others." 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  Aunt  Julia's  fault/'  said 
Marjorie,  loyally.  "  Her  nephew  only  sent  two 
tickets,  and  Elsie  says  it's  almost  impossible  to 
get  extra  ones.  They  were  very  kind  about  it, 
and  Aunt  Julia  hated  to  leave  me  behind." 

Beverly  and  his  mother  exchanged  a  significant 
glance,  and  then  Beverly  offered  to  accompany 
the  visitor  as  far  as  her  own  apartment  for  the 
purpose  of  carrying  the  arnica  bottle,  which  Mrs. 
Randolph  insisted  she  should  keep  in  case  of 
necessity.  Marjorie  protested,  but  Beverly  was 
firm,  and  the  two  young  people  left  the  room  to- 
gether, after  Mrs.  Randolph  had  kissed  the  girl, 
and  told  her  she  must  come  again  very  soon. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  MOTOR  RIDE  AND  A  FOOTBALL  GAME 

"  I  think  your  mother  is  perfectly  lovely," 
declared  Marjorie,  the  moment  the  door  of  the 
Randolph's  apartment  had  closed  behind  them. 
"  Is  she  always  so  kind  to  strangers?  " 

"  Mother's  a  brick/'  said  Beverly,  heartily. 
"  She's  kind  to  everybody,  and  always  doing 
things  for  people.  She's  a  good  sport,  too.  I 
really  believe,  she  is  looking  forward  to  the  game 
to-morrow  almost  as  much  as  I  am.  It's  because 
she's  so  unselfish;  she  never  stops  to  think  of 
herself  so  long  as  other  people  are  having  a  good 
time." 

"  My  aunt  is  like  that,"  said  Marjorie,  with 
shining  eyes.  "  She  is  a  great  invalid,  and  suf- 
fers very  much  most  of  the  time,  but  she  never 
complains,  and  is  always  interested  in  every- 
thing we  do.     Is  your  uncle  a  surgeon?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Beverly,  rather  surprised  by  the 
abruptness  of  the  question ;  "  he  is  a  very  fine 
surgeon,  I  believe.  Why  do  you  want  to  know? 
i55 


156    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Aren't  you  satisfied  with  the  way  your  wrist  is 
bandaged?  " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  said  Marjorie,  blushing; 
"  it  was  only  something  I  was  thinking  of  that 
made  me  ask  the  question.  This  is  our  apart- 
ment; now  I  can  take  the  bottle,  and  not  bother 
you  any  more.  Oh,  there's  a  letter  in  the  box; 
perhaps  it's  for  me!"  And  forgetting  every- 
thing else  in  her  eagerness  for  home  news,  Mar- 
jorie sprang  forward  to  possess  herself  of  the 
contents  of  the  letter-box. 

^  It  is  for  me!"  she  cried  joyfully,  glancing 
at  the  postmark.  "It's  from  Undine;  the  first 
one  I've  had  from  her." 

"  Undine,"  repeated  Beverly,  his  eyes  begin- 
ning to  twinkle ;  "  I  had  no  idea  you  counted 
water  sprites  among  your  acquaintances," 

"  She  isn't  a  water  sprite,"  laughed  Marjorie. 
"  She's  just  a  girl  like  anybody  else.  We  call  her 
Undine  because  nobody  knows  what  her  real 
name  is.  It's  a  very  strange  story  indeed.  She 
was  found  under  some  ruins  in  the  streets  of  San 
Francisco  right  after  the  earthquake,  and  we 
think  a  stone  or  something  must  have  fallen  on 
her  head,  for  she  was  unconscious  for  a  long 
time,  and  now  she  can't  remember  anything  that 
happened  before  the  earthquake,  not  even  her 


A  MOTOR  RIDE  157 

own  name.  She  isn't  crazy,  or  anything  like 
that,  but  she  has  simply  forgotten  everything. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  case  like  that  before?  " 

"  I  think  I  have  read  of  such  cases,  but  I  im- 
agine they  are  rather  rare.  It  is  very  interest- 
ing, but  if  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Marjorie,  please 
don't  mention  it  to  my  mother.  Any  mention  of 
the  San  Francisco  earthquake  is  very  painful  to 
her.     My  little  sister  was  killed  there." 

"  No,  indeed  I  won't,"  promised  Marjorie, 
"but  how  very  sad  about  your  sister.  Would 
you  mind  telling  me  how  it  happened?  Don't 
talk  about  it,  though,  if  you  would  rather  not." 

"  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  said  Beverly, 
"  but  it  was  such  a  frightful  shock  to  my  mother 
that  we  don't  like  to  have  her  dwell  on  it  any 
any  more  than  can  be  helped.  My  sister  Bar- 
bara was  in  San  Francisco  with  my  aunt  at  the 
time  of  the  earthquake.  She  had  been  very  ill 
with  scarlet  fever  in  the  winter,  and  the  doctor 
had  ordered  a  change  for  her.  My  aunt  was  go- 
ing to  California  for  a  few  weeks,  and  offered  to 
take  Barbara  with  her.  Mother  couldn't  leave 
home,  for  she  was  taking  care  of  my  grand- 
mother, who  was  ill  at  the  time,  and  I  was  away 
at  school.  So  it  ended  in  my  aunt  and  Bar- 
bara going  by  themselves.     My  aunt  intended 


158     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

taking  a  maid,  but  the  one  she  had  engaged  dis- 
appointed her  at  the  last  moment,  and  as  all  the 
railroad  accommodations  had  been  secured,  she 
decided  to  start,  and  trust  to  rinding  a  suitable 
maid  in  San  Francisco,  which  was  to  be  their  first 
stopping  place.  They  reached  San  Francisco, 
and  my  aunt  wrote  my  mother  that  she  had  en- 
gaged a  very  satisfactory  girl,  and  two  days  later 
came  the  earthquake." 

Beverly  paused  abruptly,  and  Marjorie,  her 
face  full  of  sympathy,  laid  a  kind  little  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  more,"  she  said,  gently ; 
"  it  must  have  been  very  terrible." 

"  It  was,"  said  Beverly,  sadly.  "  Part  of  the 
wall  of  the  hotel  where  they  were  staying  fell  in, 
and  they  were  both  instantly  killed.  We  feared 
for  a  time  that  my  mother  would  never  recover 
from  the  shock." 

"And  was  the  maid  killed,  too?"  Marjorie 
asked.  She  was  longing  to  hear  more,  but  did 
not  like  to  ask  too  many  questions. 

"  We  never  knew;  you  see,  she  was  a  stranger 
to  us.  My  uncle  advertised  in  all  the  California 
papers,  in  the  hope  of  finding  her,  and  perhaps 
learn  more  particulars,  but  no  answer  ever  came. 
She  was  probably  killed,  poor  thing." 


A  MOTOR  RIDE  159 

"  Your  mother  spoke  of  her  little  girl  this 
afternoon,"  said  Marjorie;  "she  said  she  would 
have  been  just  about  my  age." 

"  Yes,  she  would  have  been  fifteen  this  Janu- 
ary. It  is  rather  odd,  but  when  I  saw  you  that 
first  morning  in  the  park  you  somehow  reminded 
me  of  Babs.  She  was  such  a  jolly  little  girl. 
She  was  four  years  younger  than  I,  but  there 
were  only  we  two,  and  we  were  always  chums." 

There  was  a  look  of  such  genuine  sorrow  on 
the  boy's  face  that  impulsive  Marjorie  held  out 
her  hand. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  and  that  was  all,  but 
Beverly  understood,  and  he  went  back  to  his 
mother's  apartment  with  a  very  kindly  feeling 
for  the  little  girl  from  Arizona. 

Once  in  her  own  room  Marjorie  speedily  for- 
got the  Randolphs  and  their  troubles  in  the  de- 
light of  a  letter  from  home.  Undine's  hand- 
writing was  rather  immature  for  a  girl  of  her 
age,  but  the  letter  itself  was  most  interesting  and 
satisfactory. 

"  November  Fifteenth. 
u  Dear  Marjorie  : 

"  Your  aunt  thinks  you  would  like  to  have  a 
letter  from  me,  and  although  I  can't  see  how  you 


160    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

can  possibly   care  about  hearing   from   such   a 
stupid  person,  I  am  very  glad  to  write. 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  much  I  have  missed 
you.  If  your  mother  and  aunt  had  not  been  so 
very  kind  I  don't  think  I  could  have  borne  it,  but, 
oh,  Marjorie  dear  they  are  so  good;  I  do  hope  I 
can  deserve  just  a  little  of  all  they  are  doing  for 
me.  Your  mother  is  making  me  a  new  dress  — 
isn't  it  sweet  of  her?  She  sent  to  Albuquerque 
for  the  material ;  it  is  dark  blue  serge  with  a  lit- 
tle stripe  in  it,  and  just  as  pretty  as  it  can  be.  I 
take  a  sewing  lesson  every  day  from  Miss  Jes- 
sie, but  I  know  as  well  as  can  be  that  I  shall  never 
learn  to  make  things  as  you  do. 

"  Another  thing  that  makes  me  very  happy  is 
that  your  mother  is  giving  me  lessons,  and  let- 
ting me  recite  to  her  every  evening.  Even  if  I 
am  stupid  and  can't  remember  my  own  name,  I 
don't  want  to  grow  up  ignorant.  We  are  read- 
ing English  history  together,  and  it  is  very 
strange,  but  I  almost  always  know  what  is  com- 
ing next.  Mrs.  Graham  says  she  feels  sure  I 
must  have  learned  the  same  things  before. 

"  A  very  strange  thing  happened  to  me  one 
day  last  week ;  I  think  I  almost  remembered.  It 
was  the  day  your  long  letter  to  Miss  Jessie  came, 
and  she  was  reading  it  aloud  to  us  when  it  hap- 


A  MOTOR  RIDE  161 

pened.  It  was  just  like  the  day  I  heard  Jim  sing- 
ing '  Mandalay  '  for  the  first  time.  It  seemed  to 
me  just  for  one  minute  that  I  was  going  to  re- 
member everything,  and  I  was  so  excited  I 
screamed,  and  frightened  Mrs.  Graham  and  Miss 
Jessie.  Then  in  a  flash  it  was  all  gone  again, 
and  I  was  so  unhappy  I  couldn't  help  crying.  I 
am  afraid  I  gave  them  a  good  deal  of  trouble, 
but  they  were  so  kind!  Afterward  Miss  Jessie 
talked  to  me  for  a  long  time,  and  made  me 
promise  to  try  not  to  worry  any  more  about  not 
remembering.  She  said  some  lovely  comforting 
things  about  my  being  helpful  and  trying  to  take 
your  place,  and  they  made  me  very  happy,  al- 
though I  am  afraid  I  didn't  really  deserve  them. 

"  I  ride  almost  every  afternoon,  and  I  think 
Roland  is  beginning  to  like  me.  I  never  forget 
his  sugar,  and  I  am  teaching  him  to  put  his  nose 
in  my  pocket  for  it.  I  think  I  must  have  taught 
another  horse  that  some  time,  it  seemed  so  natu- 
ral, but  I  am  not  sure.  I  have  promised  your 
aunt  not  to  talk  about  the  things  I  think  I  used 
to  do. 

"  I  had  such  a  beautiful  dream  last  night.  I 
thought  some  one  came  and  told  me  I  was  very 
rich,  and  I  was  so  happy,  because  I  would  have 
the  money  to  pay  a  surgeon  to  come  and  see  Miss 


1 62     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Jessie.  I  was  just  planning  out  how  I  was  to 
do  it  when  I  woke  up.  I  have  thought  a  great 
deal  about  what  you  told  me  that  last  evening, 
but  of  course  I  have  never  mentioned  it  to  any 
one.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  had  time  to  meet 
a  surgeon  yet. 

"  I  must  stop  writing  now,  and  study  my  his- 
tory. Everybody  is  well,  and  they  all  send  heaps 
of  love  and  kisses.  Your  mother  says  "  don't 
let  Marjorie  know  how  much  we  miss  her,"  but 
I  am  sure  you  know  that  without  any  telling.  I 
don't  want  to  be  selfish,  but  I  should  just  love  a 
letter  all  to  myself  some  time.  New  York  must 
be  a  very  interesting  place,  and  your  letters  tell- 
ing about  it  all  are  wonderful. 

"  With  a  heart  full  of  love,  I  am 
"  Your  true  but  nameless  friend, 

"  Undine." 

Marjorie  spent  a  busy  evening  over  her  les- 
sons, and  went  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  instead  of 
writing  the  home  letters  she  had  intended. 

"  They  would  be  so  sorry  to  know  I  was  here 
all  by  myself  while  the  others  were  off  having  a 
good  time,"  she  thought,  resolutely  crushing  down 
that  troublesome  little  feeling  of  envy.  "  If  I 
wrote  to-night  I  should  have  to  mention  it,  but 


A  MOTOR  RIDE  163 

if  I  wait  till  Sunday  when  Aunt  Julia  and  Elsie 
are  back  again,  I  won't  have  to  say  anything 
about  their  having  been  away.  I  promised 
Mother  to  let  her  know  about  all  the  things,  but 
some  of  them  will  keep  till  I  get  home  and  can 
tell  her  myself." 

But  in  spite  of  the  throbbing  pain  in  her  wrist, 
and  the  disappointment  in  her  heart,  Marjorie 
soon  feel  asleep,  and  did  not  wake  until  it  was 
broad  daylight,  and  Hortense,  with  a  note  in  her 
hand,  was  standing  by  her  bedside. 

"  It  is  only  seven,"  the  maid  said  apologet- 
ically, as  Marjorie  sat  up  in  bed,  and  rubbed  her 
eyes.  "  I  would  not  have  called  you  so  early,  but 
the  hall  boy  has  brought  this  note,  and  waits  for 


an  answer." 


"What  in  the  world  can.it  be?"  exclaimed 
Marjorie  in  astonishment,  as  she  tore  open  the 
envelope,  but  at  the  first  glance  at  the  contents 
her  face  brightened,  and  she  uttered  a  joyful  little 
cry.     (This  is  what  she  read. 

"  My  Dear  Marjorie  : 

"  I  know  you  won't  object  to  my  calling  you 
Marjorie,  because  you  say  you  like  being  a  little 
girl.  I  am  writing  to  ask  if  you  will  go  with  us 
to  New  Haven  to-day.     We  are  going  in  my 


1 64    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

brother-in-law's  car,  and  are  to  be  ready  to  start 
at  nine  o'clock.  The  friend  we  expected  would 
go  with  us  has  been  prevented  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, which  gives  us  an  extra  seat  in  the  car 
as  well  as  a  ticket  for  the  game,  and  we 
should  be  delighted  to  have  you  with  us.  I  am 
sure  your  aunt  would  not  object,  and  I  will  ex- 
plain everything  to  her  myself.  I  would  have 
written  you  last  evening,  but  it  was  after  ten 
when  we  learned  that  the  friend  we  had  expected 
would  be  unable  to  go.  We  have  ordered  break- 
fast for  eight  o'clock,  and  would  be  glad  to  have 
you  take  it  with  us.  Be  sure  to  wrap  up  well, 
for  it  may  be  a  cold  ride,  and  we  shall  not  get 
back  till  late. 

"  Hoping  that  you  will  be  able  to  join  us,  I  re- 
main 

"  Sincerely  your  friend, 

"  Barbara  Randolph." 

Marjorie  was  out  of  bed  almost  before  she  had 
finished  the  last  line.  Her  eyes  were  dancing, 
and  her  heart  pounding  with  excitement. 

"  Tell  the  boy  to  say  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
go,"  she  cried.  "  There  isn't  time  to  write  a 
note;  I  shall  have  to  hurry.  Oh,  Hortense,  did 
you  ever  hear  of  anything  quite  so  splendid?  " 


A  MOTOR  RIDE  165 

It  was  a  very  radiant  Marjorie  who  presented 
herself  at  the  Randolphs'  apartment  an  hour 
later,  and  Beverly  and  his  mother  felt  fully  re- 
paid for  the  kindly  impulse  which  had  prompted 
the  invitation.  The  breakfast  that  followed  was 
a  very  pleasant  one,  and  Marjorie  chatted  away 
to  her  new  friends  as  if  she  had  known  them  all 
her  life,  and  enjoyed  herself  more  than  she  had 
done  at  any  time  since  coming  to  New  York. 

"  I  really  didn't  know  how  disappointed  I  was 
about  not  going  till  your  mother's  note  came/' 
she  said  to  Beverly,  when  breakfast  was  over, 
and  Mrs.  Randolph  had  gone  to  put  on  her  hat. 
"  I  have  always  longed  to  see  a  football  game. 
My  father  was  on  the  team  at  Harvard." 

"You  seemed  to  take  your  disappointment 
rather  cheerfully,"  said  Beverly  with  character- 
istic bluntness. 

Marjorie  blushed. 

"  It  was  just  one  of  the  things  that  couldn't  be 
helped,"  she  said  simply.  "  My  aunt  says  there 
are  some  things  every  one  has  to  make  the  best 
of." 

"  Your  aunt  must  be  a  sensible  woman,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Randolph,  who  had  returned  just  in 
time  to  hear  Marjorie's  last  sentence.  There- 
upon Marjorie  launched  forth  into  an  account  of 


1 66     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Aunt  Jessie's  bravery  and  cheerfulness,  in  which 
both  her  companions  seemed  interested. 

Mar j one  was  sure  she  would  never  forget  the 
delight  of  that  motor  ride  to  New  Haven.  It 
was  her  first  ride  in  an  open  touring  car,  and  the 
bright  sunshine,  the  keen  frosty  air,  and  the  swift 
motion,  all  combined  to  render  the  trip  a  truly 
enjoyable  one.  She  sat  in  the  tonneau,  between 
Mrs.  Randolph  and  the  doctor,  and  Beverly  oc- 
cupied the  front  seat  with  the  chauffeur. 

"  It's  the  most  heavenly  motion  I  ever  imag- 
ined," murmured  Marjorie,  as  they  bowled 
swiftly  out  of  the  park  and  along  the  grand  boule- 
vard. "  I  always  thought  riding  was  the  most 
delightful  thing  in  the  world,  but  I  believe  motor- 
ing is  even  better." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  You  must  be  an  accomplished  horsewoman," 
he  said.  "  Beverly  tells  me  you  have  spent  a 
good  part  of  your  life  on  a  ranch." 

"  I  rode  my  first  pony  before  I  was  five,  and 
helped  Father  train  a  colt  when  I  was  nine,"  said 
Marjorie.  "  I  suppose  that  is  one  reason  why 
I  love  horses  so  much,  and  can't  bear  to  see  one 
ill-treated." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  but  if  I  were  you  I 
think   I  would  leave  the  punishment   of   cruel 


A  MOTOR  RIDE  167 

drivers  in  future  to  the  Society  for  the  Preven- 
tion of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  By  the  way,  how  is 
the  wrist  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  ever  so  much  better,"  said  Marjorie, 
blushing  at  the  memory  of  her  escapade.  "  I 
don't  believe  I  have  thought  of  it  once  since  Mrs. 
Randolph's  note  came.  I  have  been  so  anxious 
to  see  a  real  college  football  match.  My  father 
was  on  the  team  at  Harvard." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  the  doctor,  looking  interested. 
"  I  am  a  Harvard  man  myself,  and  there  was  a 
Graham  on  the  team  in  my  time ;  a  splendid  chap 
—  what  is  your  father's  name?  " 

"  Donald,  and  he  was  in  the  class  of  1890," 
said  Marjorie,  eagerly.  "  Oh,  I  wonder  if  youi 
can  really  have  known  Father." 

"  I  certainly  did.  Ninety  was  my  class,  too, 
and  I  remember  Donald  Graham  very  well, 
though  we  have  never  met  since  the  old  college 
days." 

"  How  perfectly  delightful !  "  cried  Marjorie, 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "  Father  will  be  so  inter- 
ested when  I  write  him  about  it." 

Dr.  Randolph  was  really  pleased  to  hear  of  his 
old  classmate,  forgotten  for  nearly  twenty  years, 
and  he  and  Marjorie  were  soon  in  the  midst  of 
an   animated    conversation;    she    telling   of    her 


1 68     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

father's  busy  life  on  the  Arizona  cattle  ranch, 
and  he  relating  college  stories,  and  growing  young 
again  himself  in  recalling  those  old  merry 
days. 

That  was  a  wonderful  ride,  and  Marjorie  en- 
joyed every  moment.  Dr.  Randolph  told  her 
the  names  of  all  the  towns  they  passed  through, 
and  Beverly  and  his  mother  were  so  kind  and  so 
merry.  It  was  noon  when  they  reached  New 
Haven,  where  they  found  the  streets  crowded 
with  people  and  automobiles,  and  many  of  the 
buildings  decorated  with  flags  and  Yale  colors. 

"  Have  all  these  people  come  to  see  the  game?  " 
Marjorie  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Yes,  and  a  good  many  more  as  well/'  Dr. 
Randolph  told  her.  "  There  is  always  a  big 
crowd  for  these  games ;  the  railroads  run  special 
trains  on  purpose.  We  are  going  to  have  lunch 
now,  and  then  go  out  to  Yale  Field." 

"  I  wonder  if  we  shall  meet  Aunt  Julia  and 
Elsie,"  said  Marjorie.,  "  How  surprised  they 
will  be  to  see  me  if  we  do.  Aunt  Julia  will  be 
pleased,  I  know,  for  she  hated  to  leave  me  at 
home." 

"  We  shall  meet  the  Bells  and  their  party  at 
any  rate,"  said  Beverly.  "  They  came  yester- 
day by  train,  and  are  saving  a  table  for  us  at  the 


A  MOTOR  RIDE  169 

restaurant.  You  know  Lulu  Bell,  don't  you, 
Marjorie?" 

"  Yes,  she  is  in  my  class,  and  I  like  her  ever  so 
much.  I  like  Winifred  Hamilton,  too,  and  she 
is  to  be  with  the  Bells,  I  believe." 

At  that  moment  they  drew  up  before  the  hotel 
where  they  were  to  lunch,  and  Mrs.  Randolph 
and  Marjorie  hurried  away  to  the  dressing-room 
to  remove  wraps  and  motor  veils,  while  the  doc- 
tor and  his  nephew  went  to  order  luncheon. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MARJORIE   SURPRISES    HER   RELATIVES 

"  I  really  don't  know  when  I've  been  so 
pleased  about  anything!  "  exclaimed  Lulu  Bell,  a 
pretty,  bright-faced  girl  of  fourteen,  as  she  and 
her  friends  greeted  Mar j  one  in  the  restaurant. 
"  We  were  all  so  glad  when  Beverly  Randolph 
told  us  you  were  here.  Won't  Elsie  be  surprised  ? 
She  hadn't  the  least  idea  you  were  coming. 
Come  here  and  sit  between  Winifred  and  me/' 

"  I  don't  believe  any  one  can  be  much  more 
surprised  than  I  am  myself,"  said  Marjorie, 
laughing,  as  she  took  the  proffered  seat,  and  re- 
ceived the  kindly  greeting  of  her  other  school- 
mates. "  Wasn't  it  just  heavenly  of  the  Ran- 
dolphs to  bring  me  with  them  ?  " 

"  It  was  nice,"  Winifred  Hamilton  agreed 
heartily.  "  This  is  my  first  football  game,  too, 
and  I'm  almost  too  excited  to  eat.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  crowd  in  your  life?  " 

"  No,  never,"  said  Marjorie,  with  a  glance 
round  the  packed  restaurant.  "  I  wonder  if  they 
170 


SURPRISES  RELATIVES      171 

will  really  have  lunch  enough  for  all  these  people. 
Do  you  suppose  Aunt  Julia  and  Elsie  are  here?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Winifred.  "  We 
saw  Elsie  at  the  dance  last  night,  and  she  said 
they  were  going  to  lunch  with  some  friends  of 
her  cousin's.  She  will  be  at  the  game,  of  course, 
and  perhaps  you  may  see  her  there." 

"  I  think  it  was  real  mean  of  Elsie  to  come 
without  you,"  chimed  in  Gertie  Rossiter,  who 
was  not  noted  for  tact.  "  I  should  have  hated  to 
go  off  for  a  good  time  and  leave  my  cousin  at 
home  alone." 

"  Oh,  Elsie  couldn't  help  it,"  protested  Mar- 
jorie;  "  her  cousin  could  only  get  two  tickets." 

"Nonsense!"  retorted  Gertie  indignantly. 
"  He  could  have  gotten  an  extra  one  as  well  as 
not  if  he  had  known  in  time;  he  told  me  so  last 
night.  I  know  Percy  Ward  very  well,  and  he's 
an  awfully  nice  boy.  He  felt  dreadfully  sorry 
when  he  heard  about  your  being  left  behind.  He 
said  it  was  just  like  Elsie." 

"  Isn't  Mrs.  Randolph  pretty?  "  broke  in  Wini- 
fred, anxious  to  change  the  subject  before  Ger- 
tie made  any  more  uncomfortable  revelations. 
"  She  looks  awfully  young  to  be  that  big  boy's 
mother." 

"  She  is  perfectly  lovely,"  declared  Marjorie, 


172     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

and  Lulu  added,  by  way  of  keeping  the  conversa- 
tion in  safe  channels : 

"  Papa  knows  her  brother-in-law,  Dr.  Ran- 
dolph, very  well,  and  he  says  she  is  the  bravest 
woman  he  has  ever  met.  You've  heard  about 
her  little  girl,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  "it  was  very  sad;  I 
don't  see  how  poor  Mrs.  Randolph  ever  got  over 
it." 

"  She  didn't,"  said  Lulu.  "  Dr.  Randolph  says 
it  nearly  killed  her,  and  even  now  she  can't  bear 
to  speak  of  it,  but  she  doesn't  think  it  right  to 
sadden  her  son's  life,  and  so  she  is  always  bright 
and  cheerful.  If  I  ever  write  a  book  I  shall 
make  my  heroine  just  that  sort  of  person." 

At  this  moment  Beverly,  who  had  gone  to 
speak  to  some  friends  at  another  table,  joined  the 
party,  and  the  subject  of  his  family  was  dropped. 
The  luncheon  was  a  very  merry  one.  They  were 
a  large  party,  for  besides  Lulu's  father  and 
mother  and  the  three  girls,  there  were  a  couple  of 
Yale  students,  friends  of  the  Bells,  and  every- 
body seemed  in  excellent  spirits.  Marjorie  felt 
a  little  shy  at  first,  but  soon  thawed  under  the 
genial  atmosphere,  and  before  the  meal  was  over 
she  was  chatting  and  laughing  as  merrily  as  any 
of  the  others. 


SURPRISES  RELATIVES      173 

"  Isn't  Marjorie  a  nice  girl?  "  whispered  Wini- 
fred to  Lulu,  as  they  were  leaving  the  restaurant. 
"  I'm  so  glad  she  got  the  chance  to  come,  but  I 
do  wonder  what  Elsie  will  say." 

It  seemed  to  Marjorie  that  the  next  three  hours 
must  be  the  most  exciting  period  of  her  life.  To 
most  girls  a  college  football  game  is  looked  upon 
as  a  rather  important  event,  but  to  Marjorie, 
fresh  from  her  Arizona  home,  it  was  an  experi- 
ence never  to  be  forgotten.  It  was  on  the  whole 
a  peaceful  game,  and  there  were  no  serious  acci- 
dents to  mar  the  general  enjoyment  and  as  the 
sun  continued  to  shine,  and  the"  day  was  com- 
fortably warm,  there  were  not  even  the  usual  dis- 
comforts of  weather  to  be  endured.  Marjorie 
and  her  friends  were  about  equally  divided  in  their 
championship;  Lulu,  Winifred  and  Gertie  being 
for  Yale,  while  Beverly  and  Marjorie  herself 
favored  Harvard,  and  joined  in  the  cheers  and 
rejoicing  when  the  "  Crimson  "  at  last  carried  off 
the  honors  of  the  day,  although  Yale  ran  so  close 
behind  that  at  one  time  fears  had  been  enter- 
tained that  the  game  would  be  a  tie. 

"  Are  you  tired,  Marjorie?  "  Beverly  asked,  as 
they  were  making  their  way  through  the  dense 
throng  to  the  waiting  motor-car. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not,"  said 


174    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Marjorie,  laughing.  "  It  has  all  been  so  wonder- 
ful, and  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  quite  realize 
it  yet.     Oh,  there  they  are !  " 

"Who?"  demanded  Beverly,  looking  round 
in  surprise.  "  Oh,  I  see,  your  aunt  and  cousin 
—  do  you  want  to  speak  to  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  do ;  they'll  be  so  surprised. 
Why,  Elsie  is  staring  at  me  as  if  she  didn't  know 
me." 

To  say  that  Mrs.  Carleton  and  her  daughter 
were  surprised  would  be  but  a  mild  way  of  ex- 
pressing their  feelings.  They  were  for  the  mo- 
ment literally  speechless  with  astonishment. 
Elsie  was  the  first  to  recover  her  power  of  articu- 
lation. 

"Is  it  really  and  truly  you,  Marjorie?"  she 
demanded,  regarding  her  smiling  cousin  with 
round-eyed  amazement. 

"  Yes,  it  really  and  truly  is,"  laughed  Marjorie. 
"  I've  been  trying  to  find  you  all  the  afternoon, 
but  there  was  such  a  crowd.  I  knew  you'd  be 
surprised." 

"  Surprised ! "  echoed  Elsie,  looking  from 
Marjorie  to  her  tall  companion,  "  I  was  never 
so  surprised  in  my  life.  But  how  did  it  hap- 
pen —  who  brought  you?  " 

"  Mr.   Randolph  and  his  mother,"  said  Mar- 


SURPRISES  RELATIVES      175 

jorie,  "wasn't  it  perfectly  lovely  of  them?" 
And  she  proceeded  to  give  her  aunt  and  cousin 
an  account  of  recent  events. 

"  I  am  sure  it  was  extremely  kind  of  Mrs. 
Randolph,"  Mrs.  Carleton  said,  when  Marjorie 
had  finished  her  story.  "  I  only  hope  this  lit- 
tle girl  hasn't  been  a  trouble  to  your  mother,  Mr. 
Randolph." 

"Indeed  she  hasn't,"  declared  Beverly,  not 
without  some  indignation  in  his  tone.  "  We've 
had  a  splendid  time,  haven't  we,  Marjorie?" 
To  which  Marjorie,  who  felt  suddenly  as  if  a 
pail  of  ice  water  had  been  dashed  over  her, 
answered  rather  meekly: — 

"  It  was  beautiful.  I  never  had  such  a  good 
time  in  my  life." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  we  must  hurry  along,  Mrs. 
Carleton,"  said  Beverly.  "  My  mother  and  uncle 
have  gone  ahead,  and  will  be  waiting  for  us  at 
the  entrance.  Don't  worry  about  Marjorie;  we'll 
take  good  care  of  her,  and  bring  her  home  safely. 
We  may  be  a  little  late,  as  my  uncle  doesn't  like 
to  run  his  car  fast  after  dark." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  not  worry,"  said  Mrs,  Carleton, 
with  her  sweetest  smile.  "  I  know  Marjorie  is 
in  excellent  hands,  and  between  ourselves,  I 
think  she  is  a  very  fortunate  little  girl." 


176    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Marjorie  was  rather  silent  during  the  long 
ride  back  to  New  York  that  evening.  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph and  the  doctor  thought  she  was  tired  after 
all  the  excitement  of  the  day,  and  kindly  left 
her  alone,  but  Beverly  was  of  a  different  opinion, 
and  his  feelings  towards  Marjorie' s  aunt  and 
cousin  were  not  of  the  kindest. 

"  I  suppose  your  aunt  was  very  much  sur- 
prised to  see  you,"  Mrs.  Randolph  said  kindly, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  conversation. 

"  Very  much  indeed,"  said  Marjorie,  in  a  tone 
that  was  not  altogether  steady.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph, I  do  hope  I  haven't  been  a  trouble  to  you." 

"  A  trouble !  My  dear  child,  what  nonsense. 
It  has  been  perfectly  delightful  to  have  you  with 
us,  and  you  have  added  greatly  to  our  pleasure. 
I  hope  we  may  have  many  more  little  trips  to- 
gether before  the  winter  is  over.  You  know  I 
am  very  fond  of  little  girls." 

Marjorie  was  much  relieved,  but  her  heart  was 
not  as  light  as  it  had  been  all  day. 

"  Be  sure  to  remember  me  to  your  father 
when  you  write,"  were  Dr.  Randolph's  parting 
words  to  Marjorie,  as  they  drew  up  before  the 
big  hotel  at  ten  o'clock  that  night.  "  Tell  him 
he  mustn't  forget  to  look  me  up  when  he  comes 
to  New  York." 


SURPRISES  RELATIVES      177 

"Indeed  I  will,"  promised  Marjorie;  "he  will 
be  so  interested.  I  don't  suppose — "  with  sud- 
den eagerness  — "  that  you  ever  go  to  Arizona?  " 

"  I  have  never  been  there  as  yet,  but  nobody 
knows  what  may  happen.  If  I  ever  go  to  Ari- 
zona, though,  I  shall  certainly  call  on  my  old 
college  friend,  Donald  Graham." 

"Isn't  your  uncle  a  dear?"  remarked  Mar- 
jorie to  Beverly,  as  her  friend  was  taking  her 
upstairs  to  the  Carletons'  apartment. 

"  He's  a  brick,"  was  the  young  man's  hearty 
rejoinder.  "  I'm  glad  you  like  him,  for  I  know 
he  likes  you.  He  doesn't  take  to  everybody,  but 
he's  been  awfully  good  to  Mother  and  me,  and 
he  was  very  fond  of  my  little  sister.  Here's 
your  door,  so  I'll  say  good-night.  Hasn't  it 
been  a  jolly  day?" 

"  It  has  been  one  of  the  loveliest  days  I've  ever 
had,"  said  Marjorie  earnestly.  "  I'm  sorry  Aunt 
Julia  thought  I  might  have  been  troublesome,  but 
your  mother  said  I  wasn't." 

"  Troublesome !  I  should  say  not.  Don't 
bother  about  what  your  aunt  says;  she  doesn't 
know  anything  about  it,  and  it's  all  nonsense,  you 
know." 

Elsie  had  already  gone  to  bed,  and  Mr.  Carle- 
ton  had  telegraphed  that  he  was  taking  the  mid- 


178    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

night  train  from  Washington,  and  would  not 
reach  homg  till  the  following  morning.  But 
Aunt  Julia  was  still  up  and  dressed,  and  awaiting 
her  niece's  return. 

"  My  dear  child,  how  late  you  are,"  was  the 
rather  reproachful  greeting.  "  Do  you  know  it 
is  nearly  half-past  ten?  Elsie  went  to  bed  more 
than  an  hour  ago;  she  was  quite  worn  out,  poor 
child,  as  indeed  I  am  myself,  but  I  couldn't  make 
up  my  mind  to  undress  until  I  knew  you  were 
safely  at  home.  I  am  horribly  afraid  of  those 
automobiles." 

"  I'm  so  sorry  you  worried  about  m€,  Aunt 
Julia,"  said  Marjorie,  regretfully.  "  I  think  we 
were  quite  safe,  though;  Dr.  Randolph's  chauf- 
feur seems  very  careful,  and  they  don't  like  go- 
ing fast.     I  wasn't  a  bit  frightened." 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  you  were ;  children  sel- 
dom realize  danger.  Sit  down,  Marjorie;  I  want 
to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  before  you  go  to 
your  room." 

Marjorie  complied,  drawing  a  chair  close  to 
the  fire,  and  stretching  her  cold  hands  out  to  the 
welcome  blaze.  She  was  longing  to  tell  all  about 
the  day's  pleasures,  and  was  glad  of  the  prospect 
of  a  little  chat  with  Aunt  Julia  before  going  to 
bed. 


SURPRISES  RELATIVES      179 

"  Now  my  dear,"  began  Mrs.  Carleton,  speak- 
ing fast  and  rather  nervously,  "  I  don't  want  you 
to  let  what  I  am  going  to  say  make  you  unhappy. 
I  am  not  in  the  least  displeased  with  you,  because 
I  am  sure  you  had  no  intention  of  doing  any- 
thing wrong;  I  have  told  Elsie  so.  But,  Mar- 
jorie  dear,  it  is  not  quite  the  proper  thing  for  a 
girl  of  your  age  to  accept  invitations  from 
strangers  without  first  consulting  the  people  un- 
der whose  care  she  has  been  placed." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Julia,"  cried  Marjorie,  clasping 
her  hands  in  dismay,  while  all  the  brightness  died 
suddenly  out  of  her  face,  "  I  am  so  sorry!  I 
had  no  idea  you  would  object  to  my  going  with 
the  Randolphs;  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased 
because  you  were  so  sorry  about  leaving  me  at 
home.  Mrs.  Randolph  said  she  was  sure  you 
wouldn't  mind." 

Airs.  Carleton  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair,  and 
her  eyes  did  not  meet  Marjorie's  honest,  aston- 
ished gaze. 

?  I  am  sure  it  was  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Randolph 
to  think  of  giving  you  so  much  pleasure,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  not  displeased  with  you  either, 
Marjorie;  I  am  only  warning  you  not  to  make 
such  a  mistake  another  time.  The  Randolphs 
are  merely  slight  acquaintances  of  ours,  and  one 


180    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

doesn't  like  being  under  obligations  to  strangers, 
you  know.  Elsie  feels  this  quite  as  strongly  as 
I  do." 

"  Elsie,"  repeated  Marjorie,  with  a  start,  "  why 
does  she  care  ?  Didn't  she  want  me  to  go  to  the 
game  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  dear ;  of  course  Elsie  wanted  you 
to  go.  She  would  have  been  delighted  if  only 
the  circumstances  had  been  a  little  different. 
Don't  look  so  distressed,  Marjorie;  there  is  really 
nothing  tragic  in  the  situation.  You  have  done 
nothing  wrong,  and  I  am  glad  you  have  had  such 
a  pleasant  day,  but  don't  accept  another  invita- 
tion without  consulting  either  your  uncle  or  me. 
Now  kiss  me  good-night ;  I  am  tired  to  death  and 
simply  cannot  sit  up  another  minute." 

Marjorie  cried  herself  to  sleep  that  night  for 
the  first  time  in  weeks.  In  spite  of  the  memories 
of  her  happy  day,  she  was  more  homesick  than 
she  had  been  at  any  time  since  coming  to  New 
York.  She  was  so  anxious  to  do  right ;  to  please 
her  uncle  and  aunt  in  every  way,  and  show  them 
how  grateful  she  was  for  all  they  were  doing 
for  her.  And  now,  without  having  the  slight- 
est idea  of  having  done  anything  wrong,  she  had 
annoyed  Aunt  Julia.  She  was  thankful  Hortense 
had  not  mentioned  the  episode  of  the  cruel  driver, 


SURPRISES  RELATIVES      181 

and  that  her  wrist  no  longer  required  a  bandage. 
What  would  her  aunt  say  if  she  knew  of  this 
delinquency  as  well  as  the  other?  But  Marjorie 
was  a  very  honest,  truthful  girl,  and  she  decided 
to  make  a  clean  breast  of  everything  to  Uncle 
Henry  when  he  came  home.  There  was  only  one 
thing  she  could  not  understand,  and  that  was  why 
Elsie  should  have  objected  to  her  going  to  New 
Haven  with  the  Randolphs. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   POETRY   CLUB 

There  was  a  marked  coolness  in  Elsie's  man- 
ner to  her  cousin  the  next  morning,  which  Mar- 
jorie  found  decidedly  uncomfortable  as  well  as 
perplexing,  but  even  Elsie  was  not  proof  against 
the  weakness  of  curiosity,  and  after  a  few  veiled 
hints,  which  Marjorie  quite  failed  to  understand, 
she  finally  softened,  and  demanded  a  full  account 
of  yesterday's  doings,  which  her  cousin  was  only 
too  glad  to  give. 

"  Tell  me  about  Lulu  Bell,"  said  Elsie,  when 
Marjorie  had  reached  the  part  of  her  story  where 
they  had  arrived  at  New  Haven,  and  gone  to 
lunch  at  the  hotel  restaurant.  "  Did  Beverly 
Randolph  pay  her  a  lot  of  attention?  " 

"  Why,  no,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Marjorie, 
innocently,  "  at  least  not  any  more  than  he  paid 
to  any  of  us.  He  was  very  polite  to  everybody, 
and  I  think  he's  the  nicest  boy  I've  ever  met." 

"  Probably  that  is  because  you  have  never  met 
182 


THE  POETRY  CLUB  183 

many  people  except  Mexicans  and  Indians,"  re- 
marked Elsie  sarcastically. 

Marjorie,  who  had  a  quick  temper  of  her  own, 
flushed  angrily,  and  was  just  going  to  say  some- 
thing sharp  when  Mrs  Carleton  called  them  to 
get  ready  for  church.  Sunday  was  always  a 
homesick  day  with  Marjorie;  there  was  not  so 
much  to  do  as  on  week-days,  and  she  generally 
wrote  a  long  home  letter  in  the  afternoon.  Mr. 
Carleton  had  returned  in  time  for  breakfast,  but 
it  was  not  until  after  luncheon  that  Marjorie 
succeeded  in  getting  him  to  herself.  Then  he 
proposed  taking  a  walk,  and  asked  the  girls  to 
accompany  him.  Elsie  protested  that  she  was  too 
tired  after  the  exertions  of  yesterday,  but  Mar- 
jorie gladly  accepted  her  uncle's  invitation,  and 
it  was  during  that  walk  that  she  told  her  little 
story,  concealing  nothing  not  even  the  battle 
royal  with  the  brutal  driver.  Mr.  Carleton  could 
not  help  smiling  over  his  niece's  account  of  that 
affair,  although  he  grew  grave  again  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  told  Marjorie  she  must  never  interfere 
in  such  a  case.  But  he  saw  nothing  wrong  in 
her  having  accepted  Mrs.  Randolph's  invitation. 

"  I  daresay  your  aunt  is  right  in  wishing  you 
to  consult  her  before  accepting  invitations  as  a 
rule,"  he  said,  "  but  in  this  case  I  really  don't  see 


1 84    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

how  you  could  have  acted  differently.  The  Ran- 
dolphs are  charming  people,  and  it  was  very  kind 
of  them  to  offer  to  take  you  with  them.  It 
would  have  been  scarcely  courteous  to  refuse." 

Marjorie  returned  from  her  walk  with  a  much 
lighter  heart,  and  in  writing  a  long  and  detailed 
account   of  the  game  to  her  father,   she  quite 
forgot  to  worry  over  Elsie's  sulks,  or  Aunt  Julia's  ' 
warnings. 

When  the  two  girls  arrived  the  next  morning 
at  the  building  where  Miss  Lothrop  held  her 
daily  classes,  they  found  several  of  their  class- 
mates gathered  in  an  eager  group,  all  talking 
fast  and  earnestly. 

"  The  most  interesting  thing  is  going  to  hap- 
pen," announced  Gertie  Rossiter,  pouncing  upon 
the  two  new  arrivals.  "Lulu  is  getting  up  a 
club,  and  she  wants  us  all  to  join." 

"  What  sort  of  a  club?  "  inquired  Elsie,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Oh,  an  awfully  nice  one.  It's  to  meet  at  our 
different  houses  on  Friday  evenings,  and  we  are 
to  sew  for  the  poor  for  the  first  hour,  and  dance 
and  play  games  the  rest  of  the  evening." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  should  care  to  join,"  said 
Elsie,  indifferently,  as  she  took  off  her  hat,  and 
smoothed  out  her  crimps ;  "  I  hate  sewing." 


THE  POETRY  CLUB  185 

"  So  do  I,  but  the  sewing  is  only  for  the  first 
hour,  and  the  rest  will  be  such  fun.  The  boys 
will  be  invited  to  come  at  nine  and  stay  till  half- 
past  ten." 

"Boys!"  repeated  Elsie  her  face  brightening; 
"  are  there  to  be  boys  in  the  club,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  of  course  they  can't  sew,  so  Lulu 
is  going  to  put  them  on  the  amusement  commit- 
tee. My  brother  Rob  is  going  to  be  asked,  and 
Bessie's  two  cousins,  and  any  others  we  can  think 
of.  You'll  be  sorry  if  you  don't  join,  Elsie;  it's 
going  to  be  splendid.*' 

"  I  never  said  I  wasn't  going  to  join,"  said 
Elsie  loftily,  and  sauntering  over  to  the  window 
where  Lulu  Bell  and  several  other  girls  were  still 
in  earnest  conversation,  she  inquired  with  an  air 
of  would-be  indifference : 

"  What's  all  this  about  a  club  somebody  is 
getting  up?  " 

"  It's  Lulu,"  said  Winifred  Hamilton,  proudly; 
"  she  thought  of  it  yesterday  and  we  all  think 
it's  such  a  good  idea." 

"  The  first  meeting  is  to  be  held  at  my  house 
next  Friday  evening,"  Lulu  explained,  "  and 
every  member  has  got  to  read  an  original 
poem." 

"What  for?"  demanded  Elsie,  beginning  to 


1 86    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

look  rather  blank.  "I  don't  see  what  poems 
have  to  do  with  a  sewing  club." 

"  Oh,  we  all  have  to  be  initiated,"  said  Lulu, 
"  the  way  college  boys  are,  you  know,  and  the 
way  we  are  going  to  initiate  is  to  make  every- 
body write  a  poem.  It  needn't  be  more  than 
eight  lines,  and  it  doesn't  matter  what  it's  about, 
so  long  as  it's  poetry.  It  will  be  such  fun  read- 
ing the  poems  and  deciding  which  is  the  best. 
The  one  who  writes  the  best  poem  is  to  be  presi- 
dent of  the  club.     It  will  be  decided  by  vote." 

"  I  think  the  club  sounds  very  interesting,"  said 
Elsie,  with  a  little  air  of  condescension,  "  but  if 
I  were  you  I  would  give  up  the  initiation ;  it's  so 
silly."   ' 

"Oh,  the  initiation  is  half  the  fun!"  cried 
Lulu  and  Bessie  both  together,  and  Lulu,  who 
was  not  very  fond  of  Elsie,  added  with  decision : 

"  Any  one  who  isn't  willing  to  take  the  trouble 
to  write  a  poem  can't  join  the  club." 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  no  objection  to  writing 
a  poem,"  said  Elsie,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
"  It's  perfectly  simple ;  I  could  write  one  every 
week  if  I  chose,  but  it's  so  foolish." 

Bessie  and  Gertie  looked  at  each  other,  and 
Gertie  formed  the  word  "  brag  "  with  her  lips, 
but  did  not  say  it  aloud.     Marjorie  saw  the  look 


THE  POETRY  CLUB  187 

that  passed  between  the  two  girls,  and  her  cheeks 
grew  suddenly  hot. 

Elsie  was  certainly  very  clever,  but  she  could 
not  help  feeling  that  it  would  be  better  taste  on 
her  cousin's  part  not  to  talk  about  it. 

"  I  wish  I  found  it  easy  to  write  a  poem,"  said 
Winifred,  mournfully.  "  I  never  made  a  rhyme 
in  my  life,  but  Lulu  says  I've  got  to  try.  She 
made  me  write  a  story  once  when  we  were  little 
girls,  and  it  was  the  most  awful  nonsense  you 
ever  heard.  Have  you  ever  written  a  poem,  Mar- 
jorie?  " 

"  Only  a  few  silly  doggerels.  One  of  my 
aunt's  favorite  games  is  capping  verses,  and  we 
used  sometimes  to  play  it  on  winter  evenings.,, 

Just  then  more  girls  arrived,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Miss  Lothrop  rang  her  bell,  and  school 
began. 

"  Well,  Marjorie,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
idea  of  the  club?"  Elsie  inquired  of  her  cousin, 
as  the  two  were  walking  home  from  school  to- 
gether that  day. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  splendid,"  declared  Mar- 
jorie, heartily,  "  Lulu  must  be  a  clever  girl  to 
have  thought  of  such  a  plan,  especially  of  the 
initiation.  I  am  sure  the  poems  will  be  great 
fun." 


1 88     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

11  They  won't  amount  to  anything,"  said  Elsie, 
with  her  superior  smile.  "  Nobody  will  write  a 
decent  poem,  and  I  do  hate  poetry  that  isn't 
really  good.  Papa  would  never  allow  me  to 
learn  anything  but  the  classics." 

"  Lulu  says  we  mustn't  read  our  poems  to  any 
one  until  the  night  of  the  initiation,"  said  Mar- 
jorie.  "I  know  yours  will  be  splendid,  Elsie; 
you  are  so  clever." 

Elsie  smiled,  well  pleased  by  the  compliment, 
and  added  rather  irrelevantly: 

"  I  asked  Lulu  why  she  didn't  invite  Beverly 
Randolph  to  join  the  club  He  hasn't  many 
friends  in  New  York  and  might  "enjoy  it.  She 
says  he  is  older  than  any  of  the  other  boys,  but 
she  would  be  glad  to  have  him  if  he  cares  to  join, 
so  I  am  to  ask  him  and  let  her  know  to-morrow. 
The  boys  are  not  to  be  initiated,  because  they  are 
only  the  amusement  committee,  but  they  are  all 
to  come  to  the  first  meeting,  and  vote  on  the 
poems." 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject  just 
then,  but  Elsie  was  careful  to  deliver  the  message 
to  Beverly  that  evening,  and  the  invitation  was 
readily  accepted. 

"  The  girl  who  writes  the  best  poem  is  to  be 
president,  you  know,"  Elsie  explained,  with  her 


THE  POETRY  CLUB  189 

sweetest  smile.  "  You  must  be  sure  to  come  to 
the  first  meeting  and  vote  for  the  one  you  like 
best/' 

"  I  am  afraid  I'm  not  very  well  up  on  poetry," 
said  Beverly,  laughing.  "  It's  a  lucky  thing  the 
boys  aren't  expected  to  write  poems  as  well  as 
the  girls;  I  am  sure  I  should  disgrace  myself 
hopelessly  if  I  were  to  attempt  anything  orig- 
inal." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  Elsie  protested. 
"  You  have  no  idea  how  easy  it  really  is.  Of 
course  some  of  the  poems  will  be  dreadfully 
silly,  but  you  don't  have  to  vote  for  them." 

It  was  Thanksgiving  week,  so  school  closed 
on  Wednesday,  not  to  open  again  till  the  follow- 
ing Monday.  Elsie  had  several  invitations  for 
the  holidays,  but  Marjorie,  whose  New  York 
acquaintances  were  still  limited  to  the  girls  at 
Miss  Lothrop's,  had  only  the  first  meeting  of 
the  Club  on  Friday  evening  to  which  to  look  for- 
ward. She  wrote  her  poem  on  Wednesday  even- 
ing, while  Elsie  was  at  a  theater  party,  and  al- 
though far  from  satisfied  with  it,  decided  that 
it  would  have  to  do,  as  she  had  several  hard  les- 
sons to  prepare  for  Monday,  and  there  was  no 
more  time  for  writing  poetry. 

"  Of   course  it  won't  be  nearly  as  good  as 


190    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Elsie's,"  she  told  herself  cheerfully.  "  She  is 
sure  to  be  voted  president." 

She  had  asked  her  cousin  that  evening  if  she 
had  written  her  poem,  and  Elsie  had  replied  care- 
lessly that  there  was  plenty  of  time,  and  she 
would  probably  do  it  to-morrow. 

"  It  really  isn't  worth  bothering  about,"  she 
had  added,  with  some  scorn ;  "  it  won't  take  me 
half  an  hour." 

The  next  day  was  Thanksgiving,  and  the 
Carletons  and  their  niece  were  invited  to  a  family 
dinner  at  Mrs.  Lamont's.  Elsie  spent  a  long 
time  in  her  room  that  afternoon,  and  came  out 
looking  rather  cross.  Marjorie,  going  into  her 
cousin's  room  for  something  later  in  the  day, 
noticed  that  the  waste-paper  basket  was  full  of 
torn  papers. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  can  be  having  trouble  with 
her  poem,"  Marjorie  thought  innocently,  but  when 
she  questioned  Elsie  on  the  subject,  that  young 
lady  colored  angrily,  and  replied  that  of  course 
she  wasn't,  and  she  did  wish  people  would  stop 
talking  about  that  silly  Club ;  she  was  sick  of  the 
subject  and  had  a  great  mind  not  to  join  at  all. 

The  dinner  at  the  Lamonts  was  very  pleasant, 
and  Marjorie  could  not  help  being  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  she  looked  unusually  well  in  her  new 


THE  POETRY  CLUB  191 

dress.  Every  one  was  kind  to  the  little  Western 
girl,  and  she  liked  Mrs.  Lamont  and  her  daughter 
better  than  ever.  The  Ward  family  were  also 
of  the  party,  and  Mar j one  was  introduced  to 
the  Yale  boy,  Percy,  whom  she  found  most 
agreeable,  though  not,  as  she  wrote  her  mother 
afterward,  quite  so  nice  as  Beverly  Randolph. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  what  a  jolly  girl 
Marjorie   Graham  was?"   Percy  demanded   of 
Elsie,  when  the  cousins  were  alone  together  for 
a  moment  after  dinner. 
Elsie  flushed. 

"  I  didn't  know  you'd  like  her,"  she  said, 
evasively.  "  She's  dreadfully  young  for  her  age, 
and  not  a  bit  like  the  New  York  girls." 

"  Well,  she's  all  right  anyway,"  maintained 
Percy.  "  I  only  wish  I'd  known  about  her  in 
time  to  get  another  ticket  for  the  game  last  Sat- 
urday. But  she  went  with  some  other  friends, 
didn't  she?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  went,"  said  Elsie,  with  a  rather 
sarcastic  smile,  "  She  got  some  people  at  the 
hotel  to  take  her  in  their  car.  You  needn't 
worry  about  Marjorie;  she  knows  how  to  take 
care  of  herself." 

Elsie  spent  another  hour  in  her  room  on  Fri- 
day morning,  and  was  so  cross  and  disagreeable- 


192    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

at  luncheon,  that  Mar j one  wondered  more  and 
more  what  the  matter  could  possibly  be.  But  in 
the  afternoon  Elsie  cheered  up,  and  her  cousin 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  whatever  the  trouble 
had  been,  it  was  evidently  over. 

The  meeting  was  to  begin  at  eight  o'clock,  so 
immediately  after  an  early  dinner,  the  two  girls, 
accompanied  as  usual  by  Hortense,  started  in  the 
carriage  for  Lulu's  home,  which  was  on  Madison 
Avenue,  only  a  few  blocks  away. 

Lulu  was  a  charming  little  hostess,  and  gave 
her  friends  a  cordial  greeting,  explaining  that  her 
mother  and  aunt  would  come  down  later,  but  it 
had  been  a  stipulation  with  some  of  the  Club 
members  that  nobody  grown  up  was  to  hear  the 
poems  or  take  part  in  the  initiation.  Several  of 
Miss  Lothrop's  girls  had  already  arrived,  and 
there  were  also  present  a  few  more  young  peo- 
ple, particular  friends  of  Lulu's,  who  had  been 
invited  to  join  the  Club. 

"  I  want  you  to  meet  my  friend,  Betty  Ran- 
dall," Lulu  said  to  Marjorie,  as  Elsie  turned  away 
to  speak  to  other  friends.  "  She's  English,  and 
just  as  nice  as  can  be.  She  and  her  mother  and 
brother  are  visiting  us.  She  can't  be  a  member, 
because  they  are  all  going  back  to  England  next 
week,  but  she  and  Jack  are  the  special  guests 


iTHE  POETRY  CLUB         193 

of  the  evening,  and  they  are  both  to  be  allowed 
to  vote  on  the  poems." 

Betty  Randall  was  a  quiet,  sweet-faced  girl  of 
fifteen,  and  Marjorie  liked  her  at  once. 

"  Have  you  been  in  this  country  long?"  she 
asked,  when  Lulu  had  left  them  together,  and 
gone  to  greet  other  arriving  guests.  She  could 
not  help  feeling  a  good  deal  interested  in  meet- 
ing "  a  real  English  girl." 

"  Only  since  September,"  Betty  answered, 
"  but  we  used  to  live  in  New  York.  My  mother 
is  English,  but  she  and  my  father  came  to  this 
country  when  they  were  married,  and  my  brother 
and  I  were  both  born  in  New  York.  We  lived 
here  until  four  years  ago,  when  my  uncle  took 
us  back  to  England  to  live  with  him." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  wonderfully  in- 
teresting to  live  in  England,"  .said  Marjorie.  "  I 
suppose  of  course  you  have  been  in  London,  and 
iseen  the  Tower  and  Westminster  Abbey?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Betty,  smiling.  "  One  of  my 
uncle's  places  is  quite  near  London,  and  we  often 
motor  into  town.  I  like  America,  though;  it 
always  seems  more  like  home.  Do  you  know  the 
names  of  all  these  girls?  " 

"I  know  most  of  them;  we  go  to  the  same 
school,  but  I  haven't  been  in  New  York  nearly 


194     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

as  long  as  you  have.  My  home  is  in  Arizona, 
and  I  have  only  come  here  to  spend  the  winter, 
and  go  to  school  with  my  cousin." 

Betty  looked  a  little  disappointed. 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  can't  tell  me  something 
I  want  to  know  very  much,"  she  said.  "  Lulu 
told  me  Dr.  Randolph's  nephew  was  to  be  here, 
and  I  do  want  to  see  him." 

"  Oh,  I  can  point  him  out  to  you,"  said  Mar- 
jorie.  "  He  lives  at  the  Plaza,  where  my  uncle 
has  an  apartment,  and  Elsie  and  I  know  him  very 
well.  There  he  is,  that  tall  boy,  who  has  just 
come  in.     Isn't  he  handsome?" 

"  Yes,  very,"  agreed  Betty,  regarding  the  new 
arrival  with  considerable  interest.  "  I  never  met 
him,  but  his  uncle  was  such  a  good  friend  to  us 
once." 

"I  know  Dr.  Randolph,  too,"  said  Marjorie; 
"  he  took  us  to  New  Haven  in  his  car  to  see  the 
game  last  Saturday.     He  is  very  kind." 

"  Kind !  "  repeated  Betty,  with  shining  eyes ; 
"  he  is  more  than  kind,  he  is  wonderful.  He 
cured  my  brother,  and  made  him  walk,  when  he 
had  been  a  cripple  all  his  life." 

Marjorie  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  some  of  the 
color  went  out  of  her  face. 

"  Tell   me   about   it,"   she   said,   clasping  her 


THE  POETRY  CLUB  195 

hands,  and  regarding  her  new  acquaintance  with 
such  an  eager  expression  in  her  eyes,  that  Betty 
was  quite  startled. 

"  It  was  before  we  went  back  to  England,''  she 
said.  "  We  were  living  here  in  New  York,  and 
Winifred  Hamilton  and  her  father  and  mother 
had  an  apartment  in  the  same  house.  My 
mother  was  taken  very  ill,  and  Winifred  went 
for  Lulu  Bell's  father,  whom  you  know  is  a 
doctor.  He  was  very  good  to  us,  and  while  at- 
tending mother  he  became  very  much  interested 
in  my  brother,  who  was  nine  years  old  then,  and 
had  never  walked  a  step  since  he  was  born.  He 
brought  Dr.  Randolph  to  see  Jack,  and  he  felt 
sure  something  could  be  done  for  him,  and  per- 
suaded Mother  to  let  him  be  taken  to  a  hospital 
Mother  consented,  and  Dr.  Randolph  performed 
a  wonderful  operation." 

"And  does  your  brother  walk  now?"  Mar- 
jorie  asked  almost  breathlessly. 

"  There  he  is,"  said  Betty,  smiling,  and  point- 
ing to  a  tall  boy  of  thirteen,  who  was  standing 
near  the  door,  talking  to  Winifred  Hamilton. 
"You  would  never  believe  that  he  was  a  help- 
less cripple  only  four  years  ago,  would  you?" 
she  added  proudly. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Marjorie;  "it  seems  very 


196    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

wonderful.  Do  you  suppose  Dr.  Randolph  often 
performs  such  operations  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  Dr.  Bell  says  he  is  one  of  the 
finest  surgeons  in  the  country.  Why  are  you  so 
much  interested?  Do  you  know  some  one  who 
is  a  cripple,  too?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  with  a  sigh.  "  It's  my 
aunt ;  she  had  a  terrible  accident  eight  years  ago, 
and  has  never  walked  since  But  she  is  away  in 
Arizona;  we  could  never  ask  Dr.  Randolph  to 
go  all  that  distance  to  see  her." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  Betty  admitted  regret- 
fully, "  but  couldn't  your  aunt  be  brought  here 
to  him?  I  know  people  come  from  all  parts  of 
the  country  to  consult  him.  There  was  a  little 
girl  at  the  hospital  when  Jack  was  there,  who 
had  been  brought  all  the  way  from  Texas." 

Marjorie  thought  of  the  long  three-days  jour- 
ney, and  of  her  father's  desperate  struggle  to 
make  both  ends  meet,  but  before  she  could 
answer,  Lulu,  as  mistress  of  ceremonies  — 
rapped  sharply  on  the  table,  and  the  Club  was 
called  to  order. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ELSIE   TRIUMPHS 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  began  Lulu,  speak- 
ing in  the  tone  she  had  heard  her  mother  use 
when  conducting  a  meeting  of  a  charitable  board 
of  which  she  was  president,  "  I  think  every  one 
is  now  here,  and  I  must  request  you  all  please 
to  keep  quiet  during  the  reading  of  the  poems. 
After  the  reading,  votes  will  be  taken  as  to  the 
best  poem,  and  the  girl  who  gets  the  most  votes 
will  be  elected  president  of  this  Club.  The  boys 
are  particularly  requested  not  to  laugh  at  any 
of  the  poems.  The  first  to  be  read  is  by  Miss 
Winifred  Hamilton,  and  is  called  'Ria  and  the 
Bear.'  Miss  Hamilton  wishes  me  to  explain  that 
she  has  never  heard  the  name  Ria,  but  chose  it 
because  it  was  the  only  word  she  could  think  of 
that  rhymed  with  fear." 

There  was  a  general  titter  from  the  audience, 
followed  by  a  burst  of  applause,  as  Winifred, 
very  red,  and  looking  as  if  she  were  being  led  to 
execution,  rose  and  announced: 
197 


198     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  It's  perfectly  awful,  but  it's  the  first  poem 
I  ever  wrote  in  my  life,  and  I  want  to  say  that 
I  sha'n't  be  in  the  least  offended  if  everybody 
laughs."  Then,  unfolding  a  small  sheet  of  paper, 
she  began  to  read  very  fast. 

"Ria  And  The  Bear. 

"  The  sky  was  of  the  darkest  hue, 
The  grass  beneath  was  wet  with  dew, 
And  through  the  trees  the  wind  did  howl, 
Causing  the  hungry  bears  to  growl. 

"All  were  protected  from  the  storm, 
All  but  one  wee,  shivering  form, 
She  stood  beneath  an  old  elm  tree, 
The   boughs    of    which    from   leaves   were   free. 

"  A  big  bear  darted  through  the  wood, 
His  instinct  told  him  where  she  stood. 
Soon  the  monster  came  close  to  Ria, 
But  the  child  showed  no  sign  of  fear. 

"As  the  big  bear  drew  very  close, 
She  gave  a  pat  to  his  cold  nose, 
At  this  touch  the  bear  did  cease  to  growl, 
And  for  response  a  joyful  howl. 

"  Then  these  two  friends  lay  down  together, 
Quite  heedless  of  the  raging  weather, 
Upon  the  hard  and  frozen  ground, 
The  two   friends  slept,  both  very  sound. 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  199 

"But  one  of  the  two  never  awoke; 
Long,  long  after  the  wind  storm  broke, 
She  was  discovered  lying  there, 
Where  she  had  died  beside  the  bear." 

"  Bravo!  Winifred,  that's  fine!  "  shouted  Jack 
Randall,  and  then  followed  a  shout  of  laughter, 
in  which  everybody  joined,  Winifred  herself  as 
heartily  as  any  of  the  others. 

"  I  told  you  it  was  awful,"  she  said  between 
gasps,  "  but  Lulu  said  no  one  could  be  a  member 
who  didn't  write  a  poem,  so  I  had  to  do  my 
best." 

"  I  should  die  of  mortification  if  I  were 
laughed  at  like  that,"  whispered  Elsie  to  Carol, 
who  sat  next  to  her.  To  which  her  friend  re- 
plied sympathetically: 

"Of  course  you  would,  but  then  everybody 
isn't  a  genius  like  you." 

"  The  next  poem,"  announced  Lulu,  when  or- 
der had  been  restored,  "  is  by  Miss  Marjorie 
Graham  of  Arizona.     Get  up,  Marjorie." 

Marjorie's  heart  was  beating  rather  fast  as 
she  rose,  but  there  was  a  merry  twinkle  in  her 
eye,  and  if  her  voice  shook  a  little  when  she  be- 
gan to  read,  it  was  more  from  suppressed  laugh- 
ter than  from  fear. 


200    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"The   Boring   Life   of   New   York. 

"Some  think  it  delightful  to  live  in  New  York, 
But  with  them  I  do  not  agree; 
Tis  nothing  but  hustle  and  bustle  and  talk, 
All  very  distasteful  to  me. 

"I  love  all  the  pleasures  the  country  can  give, 
The  beautiful  flowers  and  the  birds; 
The  city  produces  not  one  of  these  things, 
Only  traffic  and  crowds  by  the  herds. 

"The  city  is  good  as  a  workshop  for  men, 
Who   in   parks   idle   moments   may   pass, 
But  the  pleasure  for  children  e'en  there  is  quite 
spoiled, 
When  a  sign  bids  them  '  Keep  off  the  Glass.' " 

A  burst  of  genuine  applause  followed  this  pro- 
duction, and  Marjorie  sat  down  again  quite  cov- 
ered with  confusion. 

"  It's  splendid ;  I  couldn't  have  written  any- 
thing half  so  good,"  whispered  Betty  encourag- 
ingly. "  I  am  rather  glad  I  am  not  to  be  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Club,  for  I  know  I  could  never  have 
written  two  lines  that  rhymed." 

"  The  next  poem,"  continued  Lulu,  in  her  busi- 
.ness-like  tone,  "is  by  Miss  Gertrude  Rossiter," 
and  Gertie,  looking  very  much  embarrassed,  rose, 
and  began: 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  201 


"The  Storm  at  Sea. 

The  waves  did  beat  on  a  rocky  shore; 
The  noise  resounded  more  and  more; 
A  little  craft  was  tossed  on  the  sea, 
And  all  knew  that  saved  she  might  not  be. 

The  crew  were  gathered  on  the  deck, 

Awaiting  the  crash  of  the  awful  wreck; 

Many  hearts  stopped  beating  as  the  time  drew  near 

To  bid  good-bye  to  their  children  dear. 

The  babies  and  children  all  did  shriek, 
And  now  their  voices  grew  very  weak. 
The  staunch  big  men  grew  white  with  fear, 
At  the  thought  of  death  that  was  so  near. 

:  But  all  at  once  the  winds  did  cease, 
The  waves  stopped  tossing,  and  there  was  peace, 
The    children    stopped    crying;    with    joy    they    all 

laughed, 
And  gladness  prevailed  on  that  safe  little  craft." 


There  was  more  applause,  mingled  with  laugh- 
ter, and  Elsie  whispered  to  Carol,  quite  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  several  others: 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  silly?  Even 
the  meter  is  wrong;  there  are  too  many  words 
in  some  lines,  and  not  enough  in  others." 

"  Read  yours  next,  Lulu,"  said  Winifred,  be- 


202     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

fore  her  friend  could  make  another  announce- 
ment. "  Lulu  writes  beautiful  poetry,"  she 
added  in  a  lower  tone  to  Jack  Randall ;  "  I'm 
crazy  to  know  what  she's  written  this  time." 

Lulu  protested  that  as  hostess  her  turn  should 
come  last,  but  several  other  girls  joined  their  en- 
treaties to  Winifred's,  and  she  was  forced  to 
yield.  Blushing  and  smiling,  she  took  a  sheet 
of  paper  from  her  pocket,  and  began  to  read : 

"The  Fire. 

"The  forest  trees  were  waving  in  the  wind; 
The  sun  was  slowly  sinking  o'er  the  hill, 
The  clouds  in  purple,  gold  and  blue  outlined, 
Were  mirrored  in  the  still  pond  by  the  mill. 

"The  birds  were  twittering  their  last  goodnight; 
The   dainty   flow'rets    closing  up   their   eyes, 
When  all  at  once  a  fearful  lurid  light 
Shone  in  the  many-colored  sunset  skies. 

"Quickly  that  awe-inspiring  fire  spread, 

And  many  a  tall  and  stately  tree  there  fell. 
The  timid  animals  and  birds  all  fled, 

And   naught   but   charred   remains   were  left  the 
tale  to  tell. 

"At  morn  when  in  his   glory  rose  the  sun, 
Over  the  blackened,  devastated  hill, 
The  scene  that  there  the  traveler  looked  upon 
Seemed  to  his  inmost  heart  to  send  a  chill." 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  203 

"Isn't  she  wonderful?"  whispered  Winifred 
excitedly  to  Jack.  "  I  told  you  hers  would  be 
the  best." 

"It's  very  pretty,"  Jack  admitted,  "but  I 
think  I  like  the  one  about  Ria  and  the  Bear  the 
best  of  all." 

"  The  next  poem,"  announced  Lulu,  when  the 
applause  had  subsided,  "  is  by  Miss  Elsie  Carle- 
ton." 

There  was  a  little  flutter  of  excitement  as 
Elsie  rose  —  as  the  brightest  girl  in  the  school,  a 
good  deal  was  expected  of  her.  Some  of  the 
girls  noticed  with  surprise,  that  Elsie  had  grown 
rather  pale,  but  her  voice  was  as  calm  and  su- 
perior as  ever,  when  she  unfolded  her  paper,  and 
began : 

"God  Knows. 

"  Oh,  wild  and  dark  was  the  winter's  night 

When  the  emigrant  ship  went  down, 
But  just  outside  the  harbor  bar, 

In  the  sight  of  the  startled  town. 
And  the  wind  howled,  and  the  sea  roared, 

And  never  a  soul  could  sleep, 
Save   the   little   ones   on   their   mothers'   breasts, 

Too  young  to  watch  and  weep. 

"No  boat  could  live  in  that  angry  surf, 
No  rope  could  reach  the  land  — 


2o4    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

There  were  bold,  brave  hearts  upon  the  shore; 

There  was  many  a  helping  hand; 
Men  who  strove,  and  women  who  prayed, 

Till  work  and  prayer  were  vain; 
And  the  sun  rose  over  that  awful  void, 

And  the  silence  of  the  main. 

"All  day  the  watchers  paced  the  sand; 

All  day  they  scanned  the  deep; 

All  night  the  booming  minute  guns 

Echoed  from  steep  to  steep. 
'  Give  up  thy  dead,  oh  cruel  sea ! ' 
They  cried  athwart  the  space, 
But  only  a  baby's  fragile  form 
Escaped  from  its  stern  embrace. 

"Only  one  little  child  of  all, 

Who  with  the  ship  went  down, 
That  night  while  the  happy  babies  slept 

All   warm   in  the   sheltered  town. 
There  in  the  glow  of  the  morning  light 

It  lay  on   the  shifting   sand, 
Pure  as  a  sculptor's  marble  dream, 

With  a  shell  in  its  dimpled  hand. 

"There  were  none  to  tell  of  its  race  or  kin  — 

1  God  knows,'  the  pastor  said, 
When  the   sobbing   children   crowded  to   ask 

The  name  of  the  baby  dead. 
And  so  when  they  laid  it  away  at  last, 

In  the  churchyard's  hushed  repose, 
They  raised  a  slab  at  the  baby's  head, 

With  the  carven  words  '  God  knows.' " 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  205 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  admiration,  as 
Elsie  sat  down  again,  in  the  midst  of  a  burst  of 
applause  louder  than  had  greeted  any  of  the  other 
productions. 

"Wasn't  it  lovely?"  whispered  Winifred  to 
Jack,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes.  "  I  do  love  those 
sad  pieces,  don't  you?" 

"  They're  all  right,"  said  Jack,  a  little  doubt- 
fully, "  but  don't  you  like  the  funny  ones  that 
make  you  laugh,  better?  Ria  and  the  Bear  was 
so  funny." 

"  That  poem  is  really  beautiful,"  declared 
Betty  Randall,  turning  to  Marjorie,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  tone  of  hearty  admiration.  "  She  must 
be  an  awfully  clever  girl  to  have  written  it;  it's 
quite  good  enough  to  be  published." 

But  Marjorie  did  not  answer.  She  had  given 
one  violent  start  when  Elsie  began  the  first  line 
of  her  poem,  and  at  the  same  moment  she  had 
caught  the  expression  on  Beverly  Randolph's 
face.  After  that  she  had  sat  quite  still,  with 
crimson  cheeks,  and  a  heart  that  was  beating  so 
loudly  she  was  almost  afraid  people  must  hear 
it.  In  her  mind  was  a  mild  confusion  of  feel- 
ings ;  astonishment,  mortification,  and  incredulity, 
and,  worst  of  all,  the  knowledge  that  at  least  one 


206    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

other  person  in  the  room  besides  herself  knew. 
When  the  burst  of  applause  came  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  momentary  sensation  of  relief.  At 
least  no  one  was  going  to  speak  yet.  She  cast 
an  imploring  glance  at  Beverly,  but  his  face  ex- 
pressed nothing  beyond  amusement  and  a  sort  of 
indifferent  contempt. 

There  were  more  poems  read;  some  funny, 
some  sentimental;  but  Mar j one  scarcely  heard 
them.  In  her  thoughts  there  was  room  but  for 
one  thing.  Even  the  wonderful  story  Betty 
had  told  about  her  brother  and  Dr.  Randolph 
was  swept  away  in  the  shock  of  the  discovery 
she  had  made.  Several  times  she  glanced  at 
Elsie,  fully  expecting  to  see  some  expression  of 
shame  or  remorse  but  that  young  lady  was  look- 
ing the  picture  of  smiling  content. 

When  the  poems  had  all  been  read,  there  was 
a  general  move,  and  pencils  and  bits  of  paper 
were  handed  around. 

"  One  of  the  boys  will  pass  round  a  hat,"  Lulu 
explained,  "  and  you  must  all  drop  your  votes 
into  it."  Then,  with  a  sudden  generous  impulse, 
she  went  up  to  Elsie  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Yours  was  ever  so  much  the  best,  Elsie," 
she  said,  frankly;  "  you  certainly  deserve  to  be 
president." 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  207 

Elsie  just  touched  the  outstretched  hand  with 
the  tips  of  her  ringers,  and  for  one  moment  her 
eyes  dropped  and  her  color  deepened. 

There  was  a  moment  of  dead  silence  while  the 
names  were  being  written,  then  Gertie  Rossiter's 
brother  passed  round  the  hat,  and  each  girl  and 
boy  dropped  a  bit  of  paper  into  it. 

"  I  shall  vote  for  Elsie  Carleton,  sha'n't  you?  " 
whispered  Betty  to  Marjorie,  but  Mar j one  shook 
her  head. 

"  I  am  going  to  vote  for  Lulu  Bell,"  she  said 
shortly. 

It  was  an  exciting  moment  when  Beverly  Ran- 
dolph and  Rob  Rossiter  —  the  two  oldest  boys 
present  —  counted  the  votes  and  announced  the 
results :  "  Elsie  Carleton,  thirteen.  Lulu  Bell, 
nine.  Marjorie  Graham,  five.  Gertie  Rossiter, 
three,  and  Winifred  Hamilton,  one." 

The  presidency  of  the  Club  was  unanimously 
accorded  to  Elsie, 

Then  came  an  hour  of  games  and  dancing,  fol- 
lowed at  half-past  nine,  by  light  refreshments. 
But  although  Marjorie  entered  into  the  gayety 
with  the  rest,  her  heart  was  very  heavy,  and  she 
did  not  join  in  the  congratulations  which  were 
being  showered  upon  the  new  president,  in  which 
even  Lulu's  mother  and   aunt,   who  had  come 


208     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

downstairs  as  soon  as  the  initiation  was  over, 
joined  heartily.  Beverly  Randolph  was  a  gen- 
eral favorite,  and  devoted  himself  in  turn  to  al- 
most every  girl  in  the  room,  but  he,  too,  held 
aloof  from  the  new  president.  He  and  Marjorie 
had  no  opportunity  for  private  conversation  till 
the  refreshments  were  being  served,  when  he 
approached  her  corner,  with  a  plate  of  ice- 
cream. 

"  Your  '  Boring  Life  of  New  York  '  was  fine," 
he  remarked,  pleasantly,  taking  the  vacant  chair 
by  her  side.  "  I  quite  agree  with  your  sentiment. 
I  voted  for  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Marjorie,  blushing, 
"but  it  wasn't  nearly  as  good  as  several  of  the 
others.  Lulu's  was  splendid.  You  —  you 
didn't  like  Elsie's?" 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  Beverly  bluntly,  "  and 
you  didn't,  either." 

Marjorie's  cheeks  were  crimson,  but  she  made 
one  desperate  effort  to  save  her  cousin. 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  little  poem,"  she  faltered, 
«  only  —  only  I  thought  —  but  perhaps  I  was 
mistaken  —  I'm  sure  Elsie  wouldn't  have  done 
such  a  thing;  it  must  have  been  a  mistake." 

Beverly  said  nothing,  but  he  did  not  look  con- 
vinced. 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  209 

"Where  —  where  did  you  see  it  before?" 
Mar j one  went  on  desperately. 

"  In  an  old  volume  of  '  St.  Nicholas '  at  home. 
My  mother  used  to  take  the  magazine  when  she 
was  a  little  girl,  and  has  all  the  volumes  bound. 
I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  some  of  the  old  stories, 
and  so  was  my  sister  Barbara.  I  remember  she 
learned  that  poem  once  to  recite  to  Mother  on 
her  birthday." 

Marjorie's  heart  sank  like  lead.  Well  did  she 
remember  the  old  worn  volumes  of  St.  Nicholas 
—  relics  of  her  own  mother's  childhood  —  over 
which  she  had  pored  on  many  a  rainy  day  at 
home.     She  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  Beverly. 

"You  won't  tell?"  she  said  unsteadily. 

"Of  course  I  won't;  I'm  not  a  cad.  And  look 
here,  Marjorie;  I  wouldn't  bother  my  head  about 
it  if  I  were  you.  Miss  Elsie  is  quite  able  to  fight 
her  own  battles." 

"  But  she  is  my  cousin,"  said  Marjorie  in  a 
very  low  voice,  "  and  I'm  so  ashamed." 

Beverly's  face  softened,  and  his  voice  was  very 
kind  when  he  answered : 

"You're  a  brick,  Marjorie;  lots  of  girls 
wouldn't  care.  But  don't  let  it  make  you  un- 
happy. If  I  were  you  I'd  have  it  out  with  Elsie ; 
perhaps  she'll  have  some  excuse  to  offer." 


2io    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Before  Marjorie  could  answer  Lulu  came  up 
to  ask  Beverly  to  come  and  be  introduced  to 
Betty  Randall,  who  was  particularly  anxious  to 
meet  him,  and  he  was  obliged  to  hurry  away. 

"  What  were  you  and  that  English  girl  talking 
about  so  long? "  Elsie  inquired,  as  she  and  Mar- 
jorie were  driving  home  together  half  an  hour 
later. 

Marjorie  roused  herself  from  uncomfortable 
reflections  with  a  start. 

"  Oh,  nothing  in  particular,"  she  said,  "  at 
least  nothing  you  would  be  interested  in.  She 
was  telling  me  about  her  brother,  who  used  to  be 
a  cripple  till  Beverly  Randolph's  uncle  cured  him. 
He  is  a  fine,  strong-looking  boy  now  —  did  you 
notice  him?" 

"  Yes.    Did  you  know  their  uncle  was  a  lord  ?  " 

"  Is  he?  "  said  Marjorie  indifferently,  and  once 
more  relapsed  into  silence.  Elsie  regarded  her 
cousin  in  evident  surprise. 

"What's  the  matter,  Marjorie?"  she  inquired 
curiously.  "  You  seem  to  be  in  the  dumps,  and 
I'm  sure  I  can't  see  why.  You  really  danced 
much  better  than  I  supposed  you  could.  You're 
not  jealous,  are  you?  " 

"  Jealous,"  repeated  Marjorie,  stupidly,  "  what 
about?" 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  211 

"  Why,  your  poem,  of  course,  because  you 
didn't  get  more  votes.  It  really  wasn't  bad;  I 
heard  several  of  the  girls  say  so." 

"  Of  course  I  wasn't  jealous,"  said  Marjorie, 
indignantly.  "  I  never  dreamed  of  getting  many 
votes.  I  think  people  were  very  kind  to  vote  for 
me  at  all;  it  was  just  silly  doggerel." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  fly  into  a  temper  even  if 
you're  not  jealous,"  laughed  Elsie.  "  Do  you 
know  you  never  congratulated  me  on  my  poem. 
I  think  people  thought  it  rather  queer,  when  every 
one  was  saying  how  much  they  liked  it." 

"  I  couldn't,"  said  Marjorie  in  a  low  voice. 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Elsie,  sharply.  She 
was  evidently  startled  but  beyond  a  slightly 
heightened  color,  she  showed  no  sign  of  embar- 
rassment. 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  we  get  home,"  whispered 
Marjorie,  with  a  glance  at  Hortense,  who  was 
sitting  in  the  opposite  seat. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  until  the  car- 
riage drew  up  before  the  big  hotel.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Carleton  were  out,  and  the  girls  went  at 
once  to  their  rooms,  without  exchanging  the 
usual  good-nights.  Marjorie's  heart  was  beat- 
ing painfully  fast,  and  her  cheeks  were  burning, 
but  she  did  not  waver  in  her  determination  to 


212     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  have  it  out "  with  Elsie  before  they  went  to 
bed.  So  instead  of  beginning  to  undress,  she 
sat  down  to  wait  until  Hortense  should  have 
finished  waiting  on  her  cousin  and  gone  away. 
She  had,  with  some  difficulty,  at  last  succeeded  in 
convincing  the  maid  that  she  did  not  require  as- 
sistance herself. 

"  Elsie  will  be  terribly  angry,"  she  told  herself 
mournfully,  "  and  it  will  be  very  horrid  and  un- 
comfortable, but  it  wouldn't  be  honest  not  to  let 
her  know  I  recognized  that  poem.  Perhaps  she 
can  explain  —  oh,  I  do  hope  she  can  —  and  then 
I  can  tell  Beverly,  and  everything  will  be  all  right 
again." 

She  heard  the  outer  door  close  behind  Hor- 
tense, and  was  just  about  to  go  to  her  cousin's 
room,  when  her  door  was  pushed  unceremo- 
niously open  and  Elsie  herself  came  in.  Elsie's 
cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  eyes  were  flashing, 
but  whether  with  anger  or  excitement  Marjorie 
could  not  tell. 

"  Well,"  she  began  in  a  tone  which  she  evi- 
dently intended  to  be  quite  cheerful  and  indiffer- 
ent, "  I've  gotten  rid  of  Hortense.  She  seemed 
to  think  she  ought  to  stay  till  Papa  and  Mamma 
came  home,  but  I  told  her  we  didn't  need  her. 
Now  you  can  tell  me  what  you  said  you  would 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  213 

when  we  got  home.  Do  be  quick  about  it, 
though,  for  I'm  awfully  sleepy,  and  I  want  to 
go  to  bed." 

Before  answering  Marjorie  went  over  to  her 
cousin's  side,  and  laid  a  timid  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der. 

"  Elsie,"  she  said  gently,  "  I'm  so  sorry;  I  hate 
to  say  it,  but  I've  got  to.  It's  —  about  that 
poem ;  I've  read  it  before.  You  didn't  think  you 
really  made  it  up,  did  you?  " 

With  an  angry  gesture  Elsie  pushed  away  her 
cousin's  hand. 

"Of  course  I  made  it  up,"  she  said  angrily; 
"  how  dare  you  say  I  didn't  ?  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  ever  saw  a  poem  like  it  before  in 
your  life;  you  only  say  so  because  you're 
jealous." 

"  Oh,  Elsie,  how  can  you  say  such  dreadful 
things?  "  cried  poor  Marjorie,  clasping  her  hands 
in  her  distress,  and  on  the  verge  of  tears.  "  How 
could  I  possibly  be  jealous  of  any  one  so  much 
cleverer  than  myself?  I've  been  so  proud  of 
you,  Elsie  —  indeed,  indeed  I  have  —  but  I  read 
that  poem  in  an  old  '  St.  Nicholas '  at  home.  I 
remembered  it  because  it  was  so  pretty.  Bev- 
erly Randolph  remembers  it,  too;  he — " 

"  Beverly   Randolph !  "   cried   Elsie,   her  eyes 


214    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

flashing  ominously ;  "  so  you  told  him  about  it, 
did  you?  That  accounts  for  his  not  congratu- 
lating me  when  all  the  others  did.  Mar j one 
Graham,  you  are  the  meanest,  most  contemptible 
girl  I  have  ever  known.  To  think  of  your  doing 
such  a  thing  after  all  Papa  and  Mamma  have 
done  for  you!  But  if  you  suppose  for  one  mo- 
ment that  any  one  is  going  to  take  your  word 
against  mine,  you'll  find  yourself  very  much  mis- 
taken. I  shall  write  a  note  to  Beverly  Randolph 
to-morrow.  A  nice  opinion  he  must  have  of  you 
already  —  boys  hate  sneaks." 

"  I'm  not  a  sneak,"  retorted  Marjorie,  her  own 
eyes  beginning  to  flash.  "  I  wouldn't  have  told 
Beverly  Randolph  or  any  one  else  such  a  thing 
for  the  world;  I  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
have  them  know.  He  recognized  the  poem,  too. 
I  saw  he  did  the  minute  you  began  to  read  — 
and  afterwards  he  spoke  of  it.  But  he  won't 
tell;  he  promised  not  to,  and  —  oh,  Elsie  I 
thought  you  might  be  able  to  explain  it  in  some 
way." 

"  There  isn't  anything  to  explain,"  said  Elsie, 
obstinately.  "  If  you  and  that  horrid  Randolph 
boy  choose  to  say  wicked  things  about  me  you 
can,  but  you  are  not  everybody,  and  when  my 
friends  hear  about  it  I  think  they'll  have  some- 


ELSIE  TRIUMPHS  215 

thing  to  say."  And  without  another  word,  Elsie 
walked  out  of  the  room,  slamming  the  door  be- 
hind her,  and  her  cousin  was  left  to  cry  herself 
to  sleep  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   THINGS   THAT    HURT 

Marjorie  awoke  the  next  morning  with  a 
very  heavy  heart.  Although  Elsie's  companion- 
ship had  not  proved  quite  all  she  had  anticipated, 
still  they  had  hitherto  been  perfectly  good  friends. 
Marjorie  had  looked  upon  her  clever  cousin  with 
genuine  admiration,  and  if  in  some  things  Elsie 
had  disappointed  her,  she  had  explained  the  fact 
to  herself  by  remembering  how  different  life  in 
New  York  was  from  life  in  Arizona. 

"  Elsie  has  so  many  friends,"  she  had  told  her- 
self over  and  over  again;  "  of  course  I  can't  ex- 
pect her  to  be  as  fond  of  me  as  I  am  of  her." 

But  last  night's  discovery  had  been  a  cruel  dis- 
appointment, and  her  cousin's  parting  words  had 
hurt  more  than  perhaps  Elsie  herself  fully 
realized.  She  had  lain  awake  a  long  time,  hop- 
ing —  almost  expecting  —  that  Elsie  would 
come  back  to  tell  her  she  was  sorry.  She  was 
so  ready  to  forgive,  herself,  and  even  to  make  al- 
lowances, but  no  sound  had  come  from  the  ad- 
joining room,  and  she  had  fallen  asleep  at  last, 
216 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    217 

still  hoping  that  morning  might  bring  about  the 
longed-for  reconciliation. 

It  was  still  very  early,  but  accustomed  all  her 
life  to  the  early  hours  of  the  ranch,  she  had  not 
yet  learned  to  sleep  as  late  as  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  family.  She  tossed  about  in  bed  for 
half  an  hour,  vainly  trying  to  go  to  sleep  again, 
and  then  suddenly  determined  to  get  up. 

"  If  I  could  only  have  a  canter  on  Roland,  or 
a  good  long  tramp  before  breakfast,"  she  thought, 
with  a  regretful  sigh,  "  I  know  it  would  clear  the 
cobwebs  from  my  brain,  and  I  should  feel  ever 
so  much  better.  But  since  that  is  out  of  the 
question,  I  may  as  well  answer  Undine's  letter. 
She  will  like  a  letter  all  to  herself,  and  I  shall 
have  plenty  of  time  to  write  before  the  others  are 
up." 

Accordingly,  as  soon  as  she  was  dressed,  she 
sat  down  at  her  desk,  and  began  a  letter,  which 
she  was  determined  to  make  as  bright  and  cheer- 
ful as  possible. 

"  New  York,  November  28th. 
"  Dear  Undine  : 

"  I  was  delighted  to  get  your  nice  letter  last 
week,  but  this  is  the  very  first  spare  moment  I 
have  had  in  which  to  answer  it.     It  is  still  very 


2i8     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

early  —  only  a  little  after  six  —  and  nobody  else 
is  up,  but  I  can't  get  accustomed  to  the  queer 
New  York  hours.  Just  think,  nobody  has  break- 
fast much  before  half  past  eight,  and  instead  of 
dinner  at  twelve  or  one,  we  don't  dine  till  half 
past  seven.  I  thought  I  should  be  dreadfully 
hungry  when  I  first  heard  at  what  hour  New 
York  people  dined,  but  really  luncheon  —  which 
they  have  in  the  middle  of  the  day  —  is  almost 
the  same  as  dinner.  I  have  eaten  so  much  since 
I  came  here  that  I  am  sure  I  must  have  gained 
pounds  already. 

"  I  wrote  Father  all  about  the  football  game, 
and  what  a  wonderful  day  I  had.  Since  then 
we  have  had  Thanksgiving,  and  that  was  very 
pleasant  too,  though  of  course  not  as  exciting  as 
the  football  match  and  the  motor  ride.  We  all 
dined  with  Aunt  Julia's  sister,  Mrs.  Lamont. 
Mrs,  Lamont's  son,  who  is  an  artist,  and  very 
clever,  drew  funny  sketches  on  all  the  dinner 
cards,  and  his  sister  made  up  the  verses.  I 
think  my  card  was  lovely;  it  had  a  picture  of  a 
girl  riding  a  horse,  and  the  verse  underneath  was : 

"  '  Welcome,  Western  stranger 
To  our  Thanksgiving  board, 
May  you  have  a  jolly  time, 
And  not  be  very  bored.' 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    219 

"  Miss  Annie  says  she  isn't  a  poet,  and  I  don't 
suppose  any  of  the  verses  were  really  very  good, 
but  they  made  everybody  laugh.  It  was  funny 
to  have  '  board  '  and  '  bored  '  in  the  same  verse, 
but  Miss  Lamont  said  she  got  hopelessly  stuck 
when  she  had  written  the  first  two  lines,  and  had 
to  end  up  with  '  bored,'  because  it  was  the  only 
word  she  could  think  of  to  rhyme  with  '  the 
Thanksgiving  board.'  I  sat  next  to  Mr.  Ward 
—  Aunt  Julia's  other  sister's  husband  —  and  he 
was  very  kind,  and  told  funny  stories  all  the  time. 
After  dinner  we  had  charades,  and  played  old- 
fashioned  games,  which  were  great  fun. 

"Luly  Bell,  one  of  the  girls  at  school,  has 
gotten  up  a  Club,  which  is  to  meet  every  Friday 
evening  at  the  different  girls'  houses.  We  had 
the  first  meeting  last  night,  and  every  girl  had 
to  write  a  poem  in  order  to  become  a  member. 
Some  of  the  poems  were  very  clever,  and  some 
very  funny.  One  girl  made  '  close  '  rhyme  with 
'  nose.'  My  poem  was  silly,  but  I  am  going  to 
send  it  to  Aunt  Jessie,  because  she  likes  to  keep 
all  my  foolish  little  things. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  happy,  and  are  grow- 
ing so  fond  of  Mother  and  Aunt  Jessie.  The 
more  people  I  meet,  the  more  convinced  I  am 
that  they  are  the  two  of  the  very  best  in  the 


220    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

world.  I  am  glad,  too,  that  you  are  trying  not 
to  worry  about  the  things  you  can't  remember. 
I  have  told  the  girls  at  school  about  you,  and 
they  all  think  you  are  the  most  wonderful  per- 
son they  have  ever  heard  of.  The  lady  who 
took  me  to  the  football  game  had  a  little  girl 
who  was  killed  in  the  San  Francisco  earthquake. 
Her  brother  told  me  about  it,  and  it  is  a  very 
sad  story.  He  asked  me  not  to  mention  you  to 
his  mother,  because  it  always  distresses  her  to 
hear  anything  about  the  earthquake.  She  is 
perfectly  lovely,  and  so  bright  and  jolly  that  it 
seems  hard  to  realize  she  has  had  such  a  great 
sorrow,  but  her  son  says  that  is  because  she  is 
so  unselfish,  and  is  always  thinking  of  other  peo- 
ple. Isn't  it  wonderful  how  many  brave,  un- 
selfish people  there  are  in  the  world  ? 

"  I  have  met  a  surgeon.  He  is  the  gentle- 
man in  whose  car  we  went  to  New  Haven  last 
Saturday,  and  he  is  just  as  nice  and  kind  as  he 
can  be.  He  is  very  clever  too,  and  has  per- 
formed some  wonderful  operations,  but  oh,  Un- 
dine dear,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  have  the 
courage  to  speak  to  him  about  Aunt  Jessie.  Ari- 
zona is  so  far  away,  and  it  would  be  so  terribly 
presumptuous  to  even  suggest  the  possibility  of 
a  great  surgeon's  taking  such  a  journey  to  see  a 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    221 

person  he  didn't  even  know.     Still,  if  it  could 
only  happen  —  I  pray  about  it  every  day. 

"  I  must  stop  writing  now,  and  study  a  little 
before  breakfast.  Be  sure  to  write  again  very 
soon,  and  don't  forget  to  give  me  every  scrap  of 
news  about  every  one  and  everything.  Kiss 
Roland's  dear  soft  nose  for  me,  and  tell  him  not 
to  forget  his  old  mistress.  Heaps  of  love  and 
kisses  for  everybody,  with  a  good  share  for 
yourself  thrown  in,  from 

"  Your  true  friend, 

"Marjorie  Graham." 

When  Elsie  entered  the  sitting-room,  she 
found  her  uncle  and  cousin  already  at  the  break- 
fast table.  Mrs.  Carleton  had  a  headache,  and 
was  breakfasting  in  bed.  Mr.  Carleton's  morn- 
ing greeting  was  as  pleasant  and  affectionate  as 
usual,  but  Elsie  merely  vouchsafed  a  slight  nod, 
and  a  muttered  "  good-morning,"  and  then  kept 
her  eyes  steadily  on  her  plate,  as  though  to  avoid 
any  friendly  overtures  on  Marjorie's  part. 

"  What  are  you  little  girls  going  to  do  to- 
day? "  Mr.  Carleton  inquired  pleasantly,  as  he 
rose  from  the  table. 

"  I'm  going  to  dancing-school  this  morning," 
said  Elsie,  "  and  then  to  lunch  with  Carol." 


222    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Mr.  Carleton  glanced  inquiringly  at  Marjorie. 

"  And  you?  "  he  asked  kindly  —  "  are  you  go- 
ing to  dancing-school,  too  ?  " 

Marjorie  hesitated,  and  her  color  rose.  It 
had  been  suggested  that  she  should  accompany 
Elsie  to  the  dancing  class  that  morning,  and  that 
Aunt  Julia  should  make  arrangements  about  hav- 
ing her  admitted  as  a  regular  pupil,  but  after 
what  had  happened  last  night  she  did  not 
feel  at  all  sure  that  Elsie  would  desire  her 
society. 

"I'm  —  I'm  not  quite  sure,"  she  faltered;  "I 
think  Aunt  Julia  may  want  me  to  go  out  with 
her." 

Mr.  Carleton  looked  a  little  troubled,  and  when 
he  left  the  room  he  beckoned  his  daughter  to  fol- 
low him. 

"  Elsie  dear,"  he  said  in  a  rather  low  voice,  as 
he  put  on  his  overcoat  in  the  entry,  "  I  wish  you 
would  try  to  do  something  to  give  Marjorie  a 
good  time  to-day.  She  is  looking  rather  down- 
hearted this  morning,  and  I'm  afraid  she  may  be 
a  little  homesick.  Can't  you  arrange  to  take  her 
out  to  luncheon  with  you?  " 

Elsie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  She  hasn't  been  invited,"  she  said,  shortly. 
She  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  add  that  Carol 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    223 

Hastings  had  proposed  that  Mar j one  should 
make  one  of  the  party,  but  that  she  herself  had 
opposed  the  plan,  declaring  that  they  would  have 
a  much  pleasanter  time  by  themselves. 

Mr.  Carleton  frowned. 

"  I  should  think  you  knew  Carol  Hastings  well 
enough  to  ask  her  if  you  might  bring  Marjorie 
with  you,"  he  said  impatiently.  "  Remember. 
Elsie,  what  I  have  told  you  several  times  before; 
I  won't  have  Marjorie  neglected." 

Now  it  was  rather  unfortunate  that  Mr.  Carle- 
ton  should  have  chosen  just  this  particular  time 
for  reminding  his  daughter  of  her  duty.  As  a 
rule,  his  words  would  have  produced  the  desired 
effect,  for  Elsie  stood  considerably  in  awe  of  her 
father,  but  just  at  present  she  was  very  angry 
with  Marjorie,  and  this  admonition  only  made 
her  angrier  still. 

"Marjorie  is  all  right,"  she  said,  sulkily; 
"  she  manages  to  have  a  good  time  wherever  she 
goes.  If  you  knew  as  much  about  her  as  I  do 
you  wouldn't  worry  for  fear  she  might  be  neg- 
lected." 

Mr.  Carleton  did  not  look  satisfied,  but  he  had 
an  appointment  to  keep,  and  there  was  no  time 
for  argument,  so,  after  giving  his  daughter  a 
good-bye  kiss,  and  telling  her  to  be  an  unselfish 


224    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

little  girl,  he  hurried  away,  and  had  soon  for- 
gotten the  incident  in  the  interest  of  more  im- 
portant matters. 

Elsie  did  not  go  back  to  the  parlor,  but  went  at 
once  to  her  mother's  room,  where  she  remained 
for  some  time  with  the  door  closed.  Marjorie, 
having  finished  her  breakfast,  wandered  aimlessly 
over  to  the  window,  where  she  stood  looking 
down  at  the  crowds  of  people  and  vehicles  in  the 
street  below.  It  was  a  lovely  morning  and,  early 
as  it  was,  the  park  seemed  full  of  children. 
Some  had  already  mounted  their  ponies,  and 
others  were  on  roller  skates  or  bicycles.  How 
Marjorie  longed  to  join  them,  but  going  out 
alone  was  strictly  forbidden.  She  was  feeling 
very  unhappy,  and  more  homesick  than  at  any 
time  since  coming  to  New  York. 

"  I  must  get  something  to  do  or  I  shall  make  a 
goose  of  myself  and  begin  to  cry,"  she  said  des- 
perately, and  picking  up  the  first  book  she  found 
on  the  table,  she  plunged  into  it  haphazard,  and 
when  Elsie  returned  she  found  her  cousin  to  all 
appearances  quite  absorbed  in  "  The  Letters  of 
Queen  Victoria.'' 

Elsie  did  not  speak,  but  seating  herself  at  the 
piano,  began  practicing  exercises  as  if  her  life  de- 
pended on  it.     Marjorie  closed  her  book,  and  sat 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    225 

watching  her  cousin  in  silence  for  several  min- 
utes ;  then  she  spoke. 

"  Elsie." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  inquired  Elsie,  wheeling 
round  on  the  piano  stool. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  be  friends  with  me?  " 

"  I  certainly  am  not  unless  you  intend  to  apolo- 
gize for  the  outrageous  things  you  said  to  me  last 
night.  I've  been  telling  Mamma  about  it,  and 
she  is  very  angry." 

Marjorie  rose. 

"I  can't  apologize,  Elsie;  you  know  I  can't," 
she  said,  steadily,  and  without  another  word  she 
turned  and  left  the  room. 

When  Mrs.  Carleton  entered  her  niece's  room 
an  hour  later,  she  found  Marjorie  curled  up  in  a 
little  disconsolate  heap  on  the  bed,  her  face  buried 
in  the  pillows.  Aunt  Julia  was  still  in  her 
morning  wrapper,  and  was  looking  decidedly 
worried. 

"  Marjorie,"  she  began  in  a  rather  fretful  tone, 
as  she  closed  the  door,  and  sank  wearily  into  the 
arm-chair,  "  I  am  very  much  distressed  by  what 
Elsie  tells  me.  I  have  come  to  ask  you  what  it 
all  means." 

Marjorie  raised  a  swollen,  tear-stained  face 
from  the  pillows. 


226    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  What  has  Elsie  told  you  ?  "  she  inquired  anx- 
iously. 

Mrs.  Carleton  pressed  her  hand  to  her  fore- 
head. 

"  O  dear!  "  she  sighed,  "  my  head  aches  so  this 
morning,  and  I  do  dislike  all  these  quarrels  and 
arguments.  I  did  hope  you  and  Elsie  would  get 
on  together  without  quarreling." 

"  I  don't  want  to  quarrel,"  protested  Marjorie; 
"  what  does  Elsie  say  about  me?  " 

"  She  says  you  have  been  very  unkind  and  un- 
just to  her.  She  won't  tell  me  what  it  is  all 
about.  I  tried  to  make  her  tell,  but  Elsie  is  so 
honorable;  she  hates  tale-bearing.  But  I  know 
you  have  hurt  her  pride,  and  made  her  very  un- 
happy." 

Marjorie  was  silent;  what  could  she  say? 
And  after  a  moment  her  aunt  went  on  in  her 
fretful,  complaining  voice. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have  the  least  idea  what 
a  noble,  splendid  girl  Elsie  is.  It  was  rather 
hard  for  her  at  first  when  she  heard  you  were 
coming  to  spend  the  winter,  for  of  course  it 
couldn't  help  making  some  difference.  She  has 
never  had  to  share  anything  with  any  one  else 
before.  But  she  was  so  sweet  and  unselfish 
about  it,  and  I  did  hope  things  might  go  on  as 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    227 

they  had  begun.  But  now  you  have  begun  to 
quarrel,  and  I  suppose  there  will  be  nothing  but 
trouble  and  unpleasantness  all  winter.,, 

"  She  was  so  sweet  and  unselfish  about  it !  " 
How  those  words  hurt  Marjorie,  and  all  the  time 
she  had  been  thinking  that  Elsie  had  looked  for- 
ward to  meeting  her  almost,  if  not  quite  as  much, 
as  she  had  looked  forward  to  knowing  the  cousin 
who  was  "  the  next  best  thing  to  a  sister."  It 
was  only  by  a  mighty  effort  that  she  managed  to 
choke  back  the  flood  of  scalding  tears,  which 
threatened  to  overwhelm  her. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Aunt  Julia/'  she  said  tremu- 
lously; "  I  didn't  mean  to  quarrel  with  Elsie.  If 
she  had  told  you  what  it  was  about  perhaps  you 
would  have  understood.,, 

"  Well,  she  wouldn't  tell,"  said  Mrs.  Carleton, 
crossly,  "  so  there  is  no  use  in  talking  about  that. 
All  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  that  I  am  very  much 
annoyed,  and  sincerely  hope  nothing  so  unpleas- 
ant will  happen  again.  Elsie  has  gone  to  danc- 
ing-school, and  Hortense  has  gone  with  her,  as 
my  head  was  so  bad.  Now  I  am  going  back  to 
my  room  to  lie  down  for  a  while;  perhaps  I  may 
be  better  by  luncheon  time." 

That  was  the  most  unhappy  day  Marjorie  had 
ever  spent  in  her  life.     It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the 


228     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

morning  would  never  end,  and  when  her  aunt  ap- 
peared at  luncheon  she  still  wore  an  air  of  in- 
jured dignity,  and  entertained  Marjorie  during 
the  meal,  with  a  long  account  of  Elsie's  many  ac- 
complishments, a  subject  of  which  her  niece  was 
becoming  heartily  tired,  although  she  would 
scarcely  have  admitted  the  fact  even  to  herself. 
Soon  after  luncheon  Mr.  Carleton  telephoned  to 
say  that  he  would  come  uptown  in  time  to  drive 
with  his  wife,  and  Aunt  Julia  proposed  that  Mar- 
jorie should  go  for  a  walk  with  Hortense.  The 
girl's  own  head  was  aching  by  this  time,  and  she 
was  glad  of  a  brisk  walk  in  the  keen,  frosty  air, 
but  she  was  so  unusually  silent  and  preoccupied, 
that  the  maid  asked  her  anxiously  if  she  "  had  the 
homesickness.'' 

"  Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  with  a  catch  in  her 
voice,  "  I've  got  it  badly  to-day/' 

"  Ah,  I  understand,"  murmured  Hortense, 
softly,  "  Mademoiselle  is  like  me  —  I,  too,  often 
have  the  homesickness." 

Elsie  did  not  reach  home  till  after  five,  as 
Carol's  mother  had  taken  the  two  girls  to  the 
theater,  and  even  then  she  took  no  notice  of  Mar- 
jorie, but  went  at  once  to  her  mother's  room, 
where  Marjorie  heard  her  giving  a  long  and  ani- 
mated account  of  the  play  she  had  seen. 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    229 

"  By  the  way,"  remarked  Mr.  Carleton  at  din- 
ner that  evening,  "  I  forgot  to  ask  about  the  Club 
—  how  did  the  poems  turn  out?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  embarrassed  silence,  and 
Marjorie's  heart  began  to  beat  very  fast;  then 
Elsie  spoke. 

"  They  were  all  very  silly,"  she  said,  indiffer- 
ently. "  I  told  Lulu  it  was  nonsense  having  all 
the  girls  write  poems.,, 

"Whose  poem  was  the  best?"  Mr.  Carleton 
asked. 

"  They  made  me  president  of  the  Club,"  said 
Elsie,  her  eyes  bent  on  her  plate ;  "  my  poem  got 
the  most  votes," 

"  I  was  sure  it  would,"  murmured  Mrs.  Carle- 
ton, with  an  adoring  glance  at  her  clever  daugh- 
ter. "Why  didn't  you  tell  us  about  it  before, 
darling  —  you  knew  how  interested  we  would 
be?" 

"Let  me  see  the  poem,"  said  Mr.  Carleton, 
good-naturedly;  "  I  should  like  to  judge  its  mer- 
its for  myself." 

"  I  can't;  IVe  torn  it  up."  Elsie  tried  to  speak 
in  a  tone  of  complete  indifference,  but  her 
cheeks  were  crimson,  and  her  father  watched  her 
curiously. 

"  My  darling  child,  how  very  foolish ! "  re- 


230     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

monstrated  Mrs.  Carleton.  "  You  know  your 
father  and  I  always  want  to  see  everything 
you  write.  Why  in  the  world  did  you  tear  it 
up?" 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  any  good,"  said  Elsie,  with  an 
uneasy  glance  at  Marjorie;  "some  of  the  girls 
thought  Lulu's  poem  was  better." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  was,  though,"  Mrs.  Carle- 
ton  maintained  with  conviction.  "  Wasn't  El- 
sie's poem  much  the  best,  Marjorie?  " 

It  was  a  dreadful  moment  for  poor  Marjorie. 
She  had  never  told  a  lie  in  her  life,  and  yet  how 
could  she  offend  her  uncle  and  aunt,  who  were 
doing  so  much  for  her,  and  who  both  adored 
Elsie?  She  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  her 
cousin,  and  remained  silent. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  ask  Marjorie,"  remarked 
Elsie,  with  a  disagreeable  laugh ;  "  she  doesn't 
like  my  poem.  She  only  got  five  votes  herself,  so 
I  suppose  it's  rather  hard  for  her  to  judge  of 
other  people's  poetry." 

Mr.  Carleton  frowned,  and  Mrs.  Carleton 
looked  distressed,  but  no  more  was  said  on  the 
subject,  for  which  Marjorie  felt  sincerely  thank- 
ful. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  the  most  un- 
happy, homesick  day  Marjorie  had  spent  in  New 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    231 

York.  Her  uncle  was  the  only  member  of  the 
family  who  continued  to  treat  her  as  usual.  El- 
sie scarcely  spoke  to  her,  and  Aunt  Julia,  though 
evidently  making  an  effort  to  be  kind,  showed  so 
plainly  by  her  manner  that  she  was  both  hurt  and 
displeased,  that  poor  Marjorie's  heart  grew 
heavier  and  heavier.  They  all  went  to  church  in 
the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  Elsie  went  for 
a  drive  with  her  mother,  and  Mr.  Carleton  re- 
tired to  his  own  room  to  read  and  write  letters. 
Mar j one  began  her  usual  home  letter,  but  had 
not  written  half  a  page  when  she  broke  down, 
and  spent  the  next  half  hour  in  having  a  good 
cry,  which  was  perhaps  the  most  satisfactory 
thing  she  could  have  done  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

She  had  just  dried  her  eyes,  and  having  made 
a  brave  resolution  not  to  be  so  foolish  again,  was 
sitting  down  with  the  intention  of  going  on  with 
her  letter,  when  she  heard  her  uncle's  voice  call- 
ing her  from  the  sitting-room. 

"  Come  here,  Marjorie,"  said  Mr.  Carleton, 
kindly,  as  his  niece  appeared  in  answer  to  his 
summons.  "  Sit  down  and  let  us  have  a  little 
talk  before  the  others  come  home.,, 

Marjorie  complied.  She  hoped  devoutly  that 
her  uncle  would  not  notice  that  she  had  been  cry- 


232     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

ing,  but  perhaps  Uncle  Henry's  eyes  were 
sharper  than  his  family  always  suspected. 

"  Marjorie,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  what  this  trouble  is  between  you  and 
Elsie." 

Marjorie  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  her  cheeks 
grew  pink. 

"I  —  I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you,  Uncle 
Henry,"  she  faltered;  "you  had  better  ask 
Elsie." 

"  I  have  asked  her,  and  so  has  your  aunt,  but 
she  refused  to  tell  us  anything  except  that  you 
have  quarreled  about  something,  and  that  you 
have  treated  her  rather  unkindly." 

Marjorie's  eyes  flashed  indignantly,  and  she  bit 
her  lips  to  keep  back  the  angry  words. 

"  Now  I  happen  to  know  a  good  deal  about 
these  little  quarrels  of  Elsie's,"  Mr.  Carleton  went 
on  quietly.  "  She  is  a  good  girl,  and  a  clever 
one,  too,  but  she  has  her  faults  and  I  have  no  rea- 
son to  suppose  that  you  are  any  more  to  blame 
than  she  in  this  case.  All  I  want  is  a  clear  ac- 
count of  what  happened,  and  then  I  can  settle 
this  tempest  in  a  teapot,  which  I  can  see  has 
been  making  you  both. unhappy  for  the  past  two 
days." 

By  this  time  Marjorie  had  succeeded  in  con- 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    233 

trolling  her  temper,  and  her  voice  was  quite  clear 
and  steady  as  she  answered  — 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Uncle  Henry,  but  if  Elsie 
hasn't  told  you  what  the  trouble  is,  I  am  afraid  I 
can't  tell  either.  Please  don't  be  angry,  or  think 
me  disrespectful,  but  I  can't  tell;  it  wouldn't  be 
fair." 

Mr.  Carleton  was  evidently  displeased. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  turning  away  coldly,  and 
taking  up  a  book,  "  I  have  no  more  to  say  on  the 
matter.  I  am  sorry,  for  I  hoped  you  would  have 
sufficient  confidence  in  your  aunt  and  me  to  trust 
us,  and  confide  in  us.  I  do  not  wish  to  force  you 
to  tell  us  anything  against  your  will,  but  you  must 
remember  that  your  mother  has  placed  you  under 
our  care." 

The  tears  rushed  to  Marjorie's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Henry!  "  she  began,  then  checked 
herself  abruptly,  and,  with  a  half  suppressed  sob, 
turned  and  fled  back  to  her  own  room. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  later  when  Elsie  pre- 
sented herself  at  her  cousin's  door. 

"May  I  come  in,  Marjorie?"  she  inquired  in 
a  rather  conciliatory  tone. 

Marjorie  looked  up  from  the  letter  she  was 
writing;  her  face  brightening  with  sudden  hope. 

"  Of   course   you   may,"    she   said,    heartily. 


234    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Oh,  Elsie,  do  let  us  make  up ;  I  can't  stand  not 
being  friends  with  people  I  love." 

Elsie  advanced  slowly  into  the  room  and  closed 
the  door. 

"  Papa  has  been  talking  to  me,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  have  promised  him  to  forgive  you  for  what  you 
said  to  me  the  other  night.  You  —  you  didn't 
tell  him  anything,  did  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Marjorie  indignantly,  "  of  course 
I  didn't.  He  asked  me,  but  I  wouldn't  tell.  I'm 
afraid  I  made  him  angry." 

Elsie  looked  much  relieved. 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said,  speaking  more 
pleasantly  than  she  had  done  since  the  meeting 
of  the  Poetry  Club.  "  We  won't  say  any  more 
about  it.  I've  torn  up  that  silly  poem,  and  no- 
body is  going  to  remember  it.  If  Beverly  Ran- 
dolph should  ever  say  anything  to  you,  you  can 
tell  him  it  was  just  a  joke.  Now  come  into  my 
room,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  good  time 
Carol  and  I  had  yesterday." 

But  although  Marjorie  accepted  the  olive 
branch,  and  she  and  Elsie  were  apparently  as 
good  friends  as  ever  that  evening,  her  confidence 
in  her  cousin  had  been  cruelly  shaken,  and  she 
told  herself  sadly  that  she  could  never  feel  quite 
the  same  towards  Elsie  again.     Still,  it  was  a 


THE  THINGS  THAT  HURT    235 

great  comfort  to  be  on  good  terms  once  more, 
and  to  see  the  worried  expression  disappear  from 
Aunt  Julia's  face,  even  though  she  could  not  help 
feeling  a  slight  shock  on  hearing  her  aunt  re- 
mark in  a  low  tone  to  her  uncle  at  the  dinner 
table: 

"  Isn't  Elsie  sweet?  I  really  think  she  has  the 
most  lovable,  forgiving  disposition  I  have  ever 
known." 


CHAPTER  XVII 


BEVERLY  SINGS   "  MANDALAY  " 


It  was  a  stormy  December  afternoon,  about 
ten  days  later,  and  Marjorie  was  alone  in  her 
room  preparing  her  lessons  for  the  next  day. 
Elsie  had  gone  shopping  with  her  mother,  and 
Hortense  had  been  sent  on  an  errand.  Marjorie 
was  aroused  from  the  intricacies  of  a  difficult 
mathematical  problem  by  a  ring  at  the  bell,  and 
on  going  to  the  door,  found  Beverly  Randolph 
standing  on  the  threshold. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  two  had  been  alone  to- 
gether since  the  evening  of  the  Initiation,  and  in 
spite  of  herself,  Marjorie  felt  her  cheeks  grow- 
ing hot  as  she  asked  the  visitor  to  come  in.  But 
Beverly  had  no  intention  of  referring  to  unpleas- 
ant bygones. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  find  you  at  home,"  he  said, 
with  his  pleasant  smile  and  in  the  voice  that  al- 
ways put  people  at  their  ease.  "  My  mother  sent 
me  to  ask  if  you  would  come  and  sit  with  her  for 
a  while  this  afternoon,  provided  you  have  noth- 
236 


BEVERLY  SINGS  237 

ing  more  important  to  do.  She  is  laid  up  with  a 
cold,  and  is  feeling  rather  blue  and  forlorn." 

"  I  should  love  to  come,''  said  Marjorie,  her 
face  brightening  at  the  prospect.  "  I  was  afraid 
your  mother  might  not  be  well  when  I  didn't  see 
her  at  luncheon.     I  hope  she  isn't  really  ill." 

"  Oh,  no ;  nothing  but  a  disagreeable  cold,  that 
has  kept  her  in  the  house  for  the  past  two  days. 
I'm  glad  you  can  come,  for  I'm  sure  it  will  cheer 
her  up." 

"All  right,"  said  Marjorie;  "  I'll  come  in  just 
a  minute.  I  must  leave  a  note  for  Aunt  Julia  in 
case  she  should  get  home  before  I  do." 

Marjorie  found  Mrs.  Randolph  sitting  in  an 
arm-chair  by  the  fire,  looking  rather  pale  and 
tired,  but  her  greeting  to  the  girl  was  just  as  kind 
and  cheerful  as  usual,  and  Marjorie  hoped  that 
it  was  only  in  her  imagination  that  she  saw  that 
sad,  wistful  expression  in  her  kind  friend's  eyes. 

"  Now  sit  down  and  tell  me  about  all  you  have 
been  doing,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph,  when  the  first 
greetings  had  been  exchanged.  "  I  love  to  hear 
about  the  things  girls  are  interested  in.  My  lit- 
tle Barbara  used  to  tell  me  of  all  her  good  times 
as  well  as  her  troubles.  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
brought  your  work  —  what  are  you  making?" 

"A  shawl  for  my  aunt's  Christmas  present; 


238     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

one  of  the  girls  at  school  taught  me  the  stitch, 
and  I  think  it's  going  to  be  very  pretty.  I  shall 
have  to  work  hard,  though,  to  finish  it  in  time. 
Do  you  like  the  color?" 

"  Very  much,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph.  "  I  sup- 
pose this  will  be  your  first  Christmas  away  from 
home?" 

A  shadow  crossed  Marjorie's  bright  face.  "  I 
try  not  to  think  of  it,"  she  said.  "  It's  going  to 
be  pretty  hard,  but  every  one  has  been  so  kind, 
and  Uncle  Henry  and  Aunt  Julia  are  doing  so 
much  for  me,  that  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  be  un- 
happy. I  think  perhaps  if  I  keep  very  busy  I 
shall  manage  to  get  on  all  right.  Aunt  Jessie 
says  that's  a  good  way  of  making  the  best  of 
things  that  can't  be  helped."  I 

Mrs.  Randolph  said  nothing,  but  the  look  she 
gave  Marjorie  was  such  an  understanding  one 
that  the  girl's  heart  warmed  towards  her  more 
and  more.  The  next  half-hour  slipped  away 
very  pleasantly.  Mrs.  Randolph  was  one  of 
those  rare  people  who  have  the  power  of  drawing 
others  out,  and  Marjorie  chatted  away  to  her  of 
school  and  school-friends,  and  all  the  little  unim- 
portant happenings  of  her  New  York  life,  with 
almost  as  much  freedom  as  she  would  have  talked 
to  her  mother  or  aunt.     Then  Mrs.   Randolph 


BEVERLY  SINGS  239 

asked  her  if  she  liked  reading  aloud,  and  when 
Marjorie  assured  her  that  she  had  read  a  great 
deal  to  Aunt  Jessie,  she  explained  that,  owing  to 
a  cold  in  her  eyes,  she  had  not  been  able  to  read 
herself  for  several  days.  Marjorie  was  delighted 
to  be  of  real  use,  and  they  were  soon  deep  in 
an  interesting  story.  Marjorie  read  aloud  very 
well,  and  it  was  an  accomplishment  of  which  she 
was  rather  proud. 

At  five  o'clock  Beverly,  who  had  gone  to  his 
room  to  "  cram,"  as  he  expressed  it,  returned, 
and  his  mother  rang  the  bell  for  tea. 

"  Marjorie  and  I  have  had  a  delightful  after- 
noon," she  said ;  "  she  seems  to  be  almost  as  fond 
of  reading  aloud  as  I  am  of  listening.  I  am  go- 
ing to  be  very  selfish  and  ask  her  to  come  again 
to-morrow,  provided  she  can  spare  the  time. 
The  doctor  doesn't  want  me  to  use  my  eyes  much 
for  several  days." 

"  I  shall  just  love  to  come,"  declared  Marjorie 
eagerly,  "  and  I  can  easily  manage  it.  My  les- 
sons aren't  very  hard,  and  I  always  have  a  good 
deal  of  time  to  myself  every  day." 

"  Don't  you  and  your  cousin  ever  go  off  to- 
gether in  the  afternoons?"  Beverly  inquired 
bluntly. 

Marjorie  blushed. 


24P    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Not  very  often,"  she  admitted  reluctantly. 
"  You  see,  Elsie  has  so  many  more  friends  than  I 
have,  and  they  are  always  doing  things  together. 
I  like  the  girls  at  school  ever  so  much,  and  they 
are  all  very  nice  and  kind  to  me,  but  of  course 
they  don't  know  me  very  well  yet." 

"  How  did  the  last  meeting  of  the  Club  come 
off?"  Beverly  asked.  "I  was  sorry  I  couldn't 
go,  but  I  had  another  engagement." 

Marjorie  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  em- 
barrassment at  this  mention  of  the  Club,  for  she 
had  not  forgotten  the  secret  that  she  and  Beverly 
shared  together,  but  she  tried  to  answer  quite 
naturally. 

"  Oh,  it  was  very  pleasant.  The  girls  have  de- 
cided to  sew  for  the  little  blind  children  at  the 
'  Home  For  Blind  Babies.*  We  sewed  for  three 
quarters  of  an  hour,  and  then  Carol  said  we 
might  as  well  stop,  and  begin  to  get  ready  for  the 
boys.  They  weren't  invited  till  nine,  but  some 
of  the  girls  seemed  to  think  it  would  take  some 
time  to  get  ready  for  them,  though  there  really 
wasn't  anything  in  particular  to  do.  I  hope 
they'll  sew  a  little  longer  next  time,  for  if  they 
don't  I'm  afraid  the  Club  won't  accomplish  very 
much." 

Mrs.  Randolph  and  Beverly  both  laughed,  and 


BEVERLY  SINGS  241 

then  Beverly  sauntered  over  to  the  piano,  and 
began  to  drum. 

"  Sing  something,  dear,"  said  his  mother. 
"Are  you  fond  of  music,  Marjorie?" 

"  I  think  I  should  be  if  I  had  a  chance  of  hear- 
ing much,"  said  Marjorie,  smiling,  "  but  until  I 
came  to  New  York  I  had  scarcely  ever  heard  any 
music  except  the  boys  singing  on  the  ranch. 
Mother  used  to  play  a  little  when  she  was  a  girl, 
but  we  haven't  any  piano.  I  love  to  hear  Elsie 
play." 

"  Well,  I  think  you  will  like  to  hear  Beverly 
sing;  you  know  he  is  on  the  college  Glee  Club. 
Sing  that  pretty  Irish  ballad,  '  She  Is  Far  From 
the  Land,'  Beverly;  I  am  sure  Marjorie  will  like 
that." 

Beverly  laughingly  protested  that  he  had  no 
voice  whatever,  and  was  sure  Marjorie  would 
want  to  run  away  the  moment  he  began  to  sing, 
but  good-naturedly  yielded  to  his  mother's  re- 
quest, and  after  striking  a  few  preliminary 
chords,  began  in  a  clear  tenor  voice  — 

" '  She  is  far  from  the  land  where  the  young  hero 
lies/  " 

Marjorie  —  who  had  a  real  love  for  music  — 
was  much  impressed,  and  at  the  close  of  the  bal- 


242     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

lad,  begged  so  earnestly  for  more,  that  Beverly 
could  not  help  being  flattered,  and  his  mother 
beamed  with  pleasure. 

Beverly  sang  several  more  ballads,  and  one  or 
two  college  songs,  and  then,  after  strumming 
idly  on  the  piano  for  a  moment,  as  if  uncertain 
what  to  sing  next,  he  suddenly  broke  into  an  air 
Marjorie  knew. 

"'In  the  old  Mulniam  pagoda, 

Lookin'  eastward  to  the  sea; 
There's  a  Burma  gal  a-waitin', 

And  I  know  she  thinks  of  me; 
For  the  wind  is  in  the  palm-trees, 

And  the  Temple  bells  they  say, 
Come  you  back,  you  British  soldier. 

Come  you  back  to  Mandalay. 

"'Come  you  back  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  old  flotilla  lay, 
Can't  you  'ear  their  paddles  chunkin' 

From   Rangoon  to  Mandalay? 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 

Where  the  flyin'  fishes  play, 
And  the  sun  comes  up  like  thunder, 

Outer  China  'cross  the  bay.'" 

Marjorie  turned  with  a  start,  arrested  by  the 
sound  of  a  low,  half-suppressed  sob.  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
was  crying  softly.  At  the  same  moment  Beverly 
also  turned,  and,  with  an  exclamation  of  dismay, 


BEVERLY  SINGS  243 

hastily  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  hurried  to  his 
mother's  side. 

"Oh,  Mother  dear,  I'm  so  sorry!"  cried  the 
boy,  dropping  on  his  knees,  and  trying  to  draw 
Mrs.  Randolph's  hands  down  from  her  face.  "  I 
never  thought ;  it  was  very  careless.  Oh,  Mother 
darling,  please  don't  cry  —  please  forgive  me !  " 

At  the  sound  of  her  son's  voice,  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph looked  up,  and  tried  to  smile  through  her 
tears. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,"  she  said,  gently,  "  it  was 
very  foolish  of  me,  but  that  song  —  you  know 
how  fond  she  was  of  it." 

"  Yes,  Mother,  I  know ;  I  was  a  brute  to  have 
forgotten."  And  Beverly  put  his  strong  young 
arms  tenderly  round  his  mother.  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  she  found  comfort  in  the  touch,  and 
then  she  roused  herself  with  an  effort,  dried  her 
eyes,  and  turned  to  Marjorie. 

"  You  must  excuse  me  for  being  so  foolish, 
dear,"  she  said,  "  but  that  was  my  little  Barbara's 
favorite  song;  she  was  always  asking  Beverly 
to  sing  it.  I  don't  think  I  have  heard  it  since  — 
since  she  went  away." 

There  were  tears  of  sympathy  in  Mar j one's 
eyes,  and  although  she  said  nothing,  the  look  she 


244    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

gave  her  friend  touched  Mrs.  Randolph,  and  per- 
haps comforted  her  more  than  any  words  would 
have  done. 

Beverly  did  not  sing  again,  but  quietly  closed 
the  piano,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  his 
merry  boyish  face  was  unusually  grave. 

"  You  have  given  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure/' 
Mrs.  Randolph  said,  when  Mar j one  at  last  rose 
to  go.  "  I  hope  you  will  come  again  to-morrow. 
It  is  very  tiresome  to  have  to  stay  in  the  house 
all  day,  especially  when  one  hasn't  the  solace  of 
reading." 

Marjorie  said  she  would  surely  come  again, 
and  then  she  hurried  back  to  their  own  apart- 
ment, where  she  found  her  aunt  and  cousin,  who 
had  come  in  some  time  before. 

Mrs.  Carleton  had  read  Marjorie's  note,  and 
had  no  objection  to  the  girl's  spending  as  much 
time  with  the  invalid  as  she  liked. 

"  Was  Beverly  at  home  ?  "  Elsie  inquired,  anx- 
iously, following  her  cousin  to  her  room. 

"  He  was  there  some  of  the  time,"  said  Mar- 
jorie; "  he  had  lessons  to  do  at  first,  but  he  came 
in  for  tea.  Mrs.  Randolph  asked  him  to  sing  — 
he  has  a  beautiful  voice." 

".You  certainly  have  a  way  of  getting  what 


'Oh,  Mother  Dear,  I'm  so  Sorry!"- -Page  243. 


BEVERLY  SINGS  245 

you  want/'  remarked  Elsie  in  a  rather  dissatis- 
fied tone;  "I  wonder  how  you  manage." 

"Manage  what?"  demanded  Marjorie  in 
amazement ;  "  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean, 
Elsie?" 

Elsie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  know,"  she  said,  sarcastic- 
ally, and  walked  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Mar- 
jorie very  much  puzzled,  and  more  than  a  little 
uncomfortable. 

Mrs.  Randolph  did  not  recover  from  her  cold 
as  quickly  as  she  had  hoped,  and  she  was  confined 
to  the  house  for  nearly  a  week.  Her  eyes,  too, 
continued  troublesome,  and  reading  and  sewing 
were  strictly  forbidden.  So  it  came  to  be  quite 
a  natural  thing  that  Marjorie  should  spend  an 
hour  every  afternoon  in  the  Randolphs'  apart- 
ment, and  the  girl  grew  to  look  forward  to  those 
hours  as  the  pleasantest  of  the  whole  day. 

"You  remind  me  more  of  my  little  Barbara 
every  day,"  Mrs.  Randolph  said  to  her  once,  and 
Marjorie  felt  that  she  had  received  a  great  com- 
pliment. She  was  growing  to  feel  a  deep  inter- 
est in  this  Barbara,  whose  tragic  death  had  cast 
such  a  shadow  of  sorrow  over  her  mother's  life, 
but  she  had  too  much  tact,  and  was  too  kind- 


246     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

hearted,  to  show  undue  curiosity  on  a  painful 
subject,  and  so,  though  there  were  many  ques- 
tions she  would  have  liked  to  ask  about  this  un- 
known Barbara,  she  refrained  from  asking  one, 
and  was  fain  to  content  herself  with  the  stray 
bits  of  information  that  Mrs.  Randolph  or  Bev- 
erly occasionally  let  fall. 

When  Mrs.  Randolph  was  well  again  Marjorie 
greatly  missed  the  daily  chat,  and  pleasant  hour 
of  reading  aloud.  The  drives  with  Aunt  Julia, 
shut  up  in  the  brougham,  with  only  one  window 
open,  proved  a  most  unsatisfactory  substitute, 
but  her  aunt  was  very  kind,  and  showed  so  much 
real  interest  in  the  Christmas  box  she  was  pre- 
paring for  her  dear  ones  at  home  that  Marjorie 
reproached  herself  bitterly  for  not  finding  Aunt 
Julia's  society  as  agreeable  as  Mrs.  Randolph's. 
But  Christmas  was  drawing  near,  and  there  were 
times  when  Marjorie  fought  desperately  against 
the  homesickness,  which  seemed  almost  greater 
than  she  could  bear. 

To  add  to  everything  else,  she  caught  a  fever- 
ish cold,  and  Mrs.  Carleton,  who  was  always 
nervous  about  illness,  insisted  on  her  remaining 
in  the  house;  a  state  of  affairs  hitherto  unknown 
to  healthy  Marjorie,  who  had  never  in  her  life 
spent  a  day  in  bed. 


BEVERLY  SINGS  247 

It  was  on  the  second  afternoon  of  headache 
and  sore  throat  that  Mrs.  Randolph  came  to  the 
rescue.  Mar j one  had  come  to  the  end  of  her 
resources.  She  had  read  till  her  eyes  ached,  and 
sewed  on  Christmas  presents  until  she  felt  that 
she  couldn't  take  another  stitch.  The  longing  for 
fresh  air  and  exercise  was  almost  beyond  her  en- 
durance, and  yet  she  dared  not  even  open  a  win- 
dow, for  fear  of  incurring  her  aunt's  displeasure. 
Mrs.  Carleton  and  Elsie  were  out,  but  Hortense 
had  been  left  in  charge,  with  strict  injunctions 
to  see  that  Mademoiselle  Marjorie  kept  out  of 
draughts,  and  took  her  medicine  regularly.  Mar- 
jorie was  just  wondering  in  her  desperation 
whether  a  walk  up  and  down  the  steam-heated 
hotel  corridor  would  be  regarded  in  the  light  of 
an  imprudence,  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell, 
and  Hortense  announced  Mrs.  Randolph. 

"  I  have  only  just  heard  you  were  ill,"  the  vis- 
itor said  kindly,  taking  Marjorie's  hand  in  hers, 
and  looking  with  sympathetic  interest  into  the 
pale,  woe-begone  face.  "  Your  aunt  told  Bev- 
erly at  luncheon  that  you  had  a  bad  cold.  You 
should  have  let  me  know  sooner;  I  can't  have 
my  kind  little  friend  laid  up  without  trying  to  re- 
turn some  of  her  goodness  to  me." 

"  It  wasn't  goodness  at  all,"  said  Marjorie, 


248    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

flushing  with  pleasure;  "it  was  just  having  a 
lovely  time.  I  was  thinking  only  yesterday,  what 
a  very  selfish  girl  I  must  be,  for  I  couldn't  help 
being  sorry  you  didn't  need  me  any  more,  it's  so 
pleasant  to  be  needed." 

Marjorie's  voice  trembled  a  little,  for  she  was 
feeling  rather  weak  and  forlorn,  and  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph drew  her  down  beside  her  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  think  I  always  need  you,  dear,"  she  said. 
"  I  have  missed  your  visits  very  much,  and  read- 
ing to  myself  doesn't  seem  half  as  pleasant  as 
having  a  nice  little  girl  read  aloud  to  me.  Still, 
I  am  glad  to  have  the  use  of  my  eyes  again,  es- 
pecially as  we  are  going  away  next  week." 

"  Going  away!"  repeated  Marjorie,  and  her 
face  expressed  so  much  dismay  that  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph could  not  help  smiling. 

"  We  are  not  going  for  good,"  she  explained, 
"  but  Beverly's  vacation  begins  next  Wednesday, 
and  he  is  anxious  to  spend  Christmas  at  our  Vir- 
ginia home.  We  shall  only  be  away  about  ten 
days." 

Marjorie  looked  much  relieved. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  meant  you  were  going  to 
Europe,  or  somewhere  far  away,"  she  said,  "  and 
that  I  shouldn't  see  you  any  more.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  do  without  you." 


BEVERLY  SINGS  249 

"  And  I  should  miss  you  very  much,  too,"  said 
Mrs.  Randolph,  "  but  nothing  so  unpleasant  is 
going  to  happen,  I  hope.  What  are  your  plans 
for  the  holidays?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  in  particular.  Elsie  and  I  are 
invited  to  several  parties,  and  Aunt  Julia's  sister, 
Mrs.  Ward,  is  having  a  tree  on  Christmas  night. 
I  can't  help  wishing  the  holidays  were  over.  It 
will  be  my  first  Christmas  away  from  home,  you 
know." 

"  I  suppose  your  family  will  miss  you  as  much 
as  you  miss  them,"  Mrs.  Randolph  said,  sym- 
pathetically. 

"  Yes,  I  know  they  will,  and  that  is  one  of  the 
hardest  things  to  bear.  I  had  a  letter  from  Un- 
dine to-day,  and  she  says  they  are  all  very  sad, 
though  they  are  trying  hard  to  be  brave  and 
cheerful." 

"Who  is  Undine?" 

"  Oh,  haven't  I  told  you  about  her  ?  She's  a 
girl  who  lives  at  the  ranch,  and  we  call  her  Un- 
dine, but  it  isn't  her  real  name." 

Mrs.  Randolph  looked  interested. 

"  What  is  her  real  name?  "  she  asked,  anxious 
to  cheer  Marjorie  by  talking  of  home  and  friends. 

Marjorie  opened  her  lips  to  explain,  but  sud- 
denly remembered  something  Beverly  had  told 


250    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

her.  It  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  tell  Un- 
dine's story  without  mentioning  the  fatal  subject 
of  the  earthquake,  so  she  only  said : 

"  We  don't  know  her  real  name,  but  the  peo- 
ple she  lived  with  before  she  came  to  the  ranch 
called  her  Sally.  She  didn't  like  Sally,  and  asked 
us  to  call  her  something  else,  and  I  suggested 
Undine." 

Mrs.  Randolph  laughed.  "  A  rather  romantic 
name  for  a  flesh  and  blood  girl,"  she  said ;  "  how 
old  is  your  Undine  ?  " 

"  About  fifteen,  we  think,  but  we  are  not  sure, 
and  she  doesn't  know  herself.  Lulu  Bell  says 
you  have  a  beautiful  home  in  Virginia.  I  sup- 
pose you  will  be  glad  to  go  there  for  the  holi- 
days." 

"  Yes,  we  all  love  it  very  much.  It  is  a  dear 
old  place;  my  husband's  family  have  lived  there 
for  generations,  and  my  old  home,  where  I  lived 
before  I  married,  is  only  a  couple  of  miles 
away." 

"  I  have  always  thought  Virginia  must  be  a 
very  interesting  place,"  said  Marjorie.  "  I  have 
read  ever  so  many  books  about  the  early  settlers 
in  Jamestown.  Have  you  read  '  To  Have  and  to 
Hold,'  and  'White  Aprons'?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  read  both.     Our  home  is  on  the 


BEVERLY  SINGS  251 

James  River,  not  far  from  Jamestown  —  would 
you  like  to  see  it?  " 

"  I  should  love  it,"  said  Marjorie,  heartily. 
"  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall  though,"  she  added, 
with  a  sigh. 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph, 
smiling.  "  How  would  you  like  to  go  home  with 
us  for  the  holidays  ?  " 

Marjorie  was  speechless.  For  the  first  mo- 
ment she  could  scarcely  believe  that  her  friend 
was  in  earnest. 

"  I  came  this  afternoon  on  purpose  to  propose 
it,"  Mrs.  Randolph  went  on,  convinced  by  the 
girl's  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes  that 
there  was  no  doubt  about  her  wanting  to  accept 
the  invitation.  "  Beverly  and  I  were  speaking 
of  it  last  evening.  We  shall  be  alone  except  for 
Dr.  Randolph,  who  is  going  with  us,  but  we  have 
some  pleasant  young  people  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  there  is  generally  a  good  deal  going  on  at 
Christmas.  I  think  you  would  have  a  pleasant 
time." 

"  It  would  be  the  next  best  thing  to  going 
home,"  declared  Marjorie,  "but,  oh,  dear  Mrs. 
Randolph,  are  you  sure  you  really  want 
me?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph,  kissing  her. 


252     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  It  will  make  us  all  very  happy  to  have  our  nice 
little  friend  with  us." 

"  If  only  Aunt  Julia  will  let  me  go,"  said  Mar- 
jorie,  with  a  vivid  recollection  of  her  aunt's  re- 
buke on  the  evening  after  the  football  game. 

But,  contrary  to  Marjorie's  expectations,  Mrs. 
Carleton  made  no  objection  to  the  plan,  beyond 
hoping  that  the  Randolphs  would  not  find  her 
niece  too  much  care.  Neither  did  Elsie  make 
any  of  the  unpleasant  remarks  her  cousin  ex- 
pected. Since  the  first  meeting  of  the  Poetry 
Club,  Beverly  and  she  had  not  had  much  to  say 
to  each  other.  Beverly  was  always  polite,  but 
Elsie  could  never  feel  quite  comfortable  in  his 
society,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  was  not  to 
share  in  any  of  the  holiday  gayeties  was  some- 
thing of  a  relief.  She  and  Marjorie  were  ap- 
parently very  good  friends,  but  there  was  a  look 
in  Marjorie's  eyes  sometimes  when  they  rested 
on  her  cousin,  which  Elsie  did  not  like.  So  when 
Mrs.  Carleton  consulted  her  daughter  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Marjorie's  going  to  Virginia  with  the 
Randolph's,  Elsie  said  good-naturedly: 

"  Oh,  let  her  go,  Mamma;  she'll  have  a  much 
better  time  than  she  would  here.  It  would  be 
such  a  bother  to  have  to  take  her  everywhere, 
and  see  she  had  partners  at  the  dances,  and  all 


BEVERLY  SINGS  253 

that.     Papa  would  be  sure  to  ask  questions  and 
make  a  fuss  if  she  didn't  have  a  good  time." 

So  the  invitation  was  accepted,  and  Marjorie 
wrote  a  long,  joyful  letter  to  her  mother,  and 
went  to  bed  that  night,  feeling  happier  than  she 
had  done  since  coming  to  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN    THE  SUNNY   SOUTH 

"  It's  the  most  beautiful  place  I've  ever  even 
imagined !  "  Marjorie  spoke  with  conviction,  and 
drew  in  a  long,  deep  breath  of  the  fresh  morning 
air. 

She  and  Beverly  were  standing  on  the  wide 
veranda  at  Randolph  Place  gazing  off  over  the 
wide  landscape,  of  low  Virginia  hills,  with  the 
wide  river  less  than  half  a  mile  away.  It  was  a 
glorious  morning,  and  the  peace  and  quiet  seemed 
indescribably  delightful  after  the  noisy,  stuffy 
night  on  the  train.  Beverly  was  very  proud  of 
his  Southern  home,  but  boy  like,  he  tried  not  to 
show  it. 

"  It's  pretty  enough,"  he  admitted,  "  but  this 
isn't  the  season  to  see  it  at  its  best ;  you  ought  to 
come  here  in  the  spring." 

"  It's  perfect  just  as  it  is,"  declared  Marjorie. 
"  I've  read  about  such  places,  but  never  expected 
to  see  one  myself.  Is  that  river  really  the  James, 
254 


IN  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH     255 

and  did  your  great-grandfather  truly  live  in  this 
very  house?  " 

"  He  most  certainly  did/'  said  Beverly,  laugh- 
ing; "  my  people  have  lived  here  for  over  a  hun- 
dred years.  You  should  have  heard  some  of  my 
father's  war  stories.  He  was  only  a  boy  at  the 
time  of  the  war,  but  he  had  some  exciting  experi- 
ences. When  I  was  a  little  chap  I  used  to  wish  I 
had  been  alive  then,  too." 

"  Oh,  I  love  war  stories ! "  cried  Marjorie, 
rapturously ;  "  are  there  any  people  here  now  who 
can  tell  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  plenty.  I'll  introduce  you  to 
old  Uncle  Josh.  He  was  my  grandfather's  body 
servant,  and  went  all  through  the  war  with  him. 
He's  over  seventy  now,  and  doesn't  work  any 
more,  but  he  and  his  wife  live  in  a  cabin  down  at 
the  quarters." 

"  It  all  sounds  just  like  a  story-book,"  said 
Marjorie,  with  a  little  sigh  of  utter  content.  "  I 
should  think  you  would  be  tremendously  proud 
of  your  home." 

"  I  like  it  all  right,"  said  Beverly,  "  but  now 
hadn't  you  better  come  in  and  have  some  break- 
fast? I  hear  Mother  and  Uncle  George  in  the 
dining-room,  and  I  should  think  you'd  be  hungry, 
for  it's  after  nine,  and  you  were  up  before  six." 


256    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  Of  course  I  was,"  laughed  Marjorie;  "  I  was 
much  too  excited  to  sleep.  I  wasn't  going  to 
miss  the  first  sight  of  Virginia." 

The  dining-room  at  Randolph  Place  was  very- 
large,  and  the  walls  were  lined  with  portraits. 
Marjorie  was  so  much  interested  in  the  portraits 
of  great-grandfather  and  great-grandmother 
Randolph,  that  she  came  near  forgetting  to  eat 
her  breakfast,  although  the  fried  eggs  and  bacon, 
and  waffles  with  maple  syrup,  were  certainly  the 
most  delicious  she  had  ever  tasted.  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph and  the  doctor  watched  her  with  kindly 
amusement.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling  with  ex- 
citement, and  there  was  a  bright  color  in  her 
cheeks;  she  seemed  quite  a  different  creature 
from  the  pale,  subdued  girl  of  a  week  before. 

"  I  declare,  Barbara,  I  had  no  idea  that  little 
girl  was  so  pretty,"  Dr.  Randolph  remarked  in  a 
low  tone  to  his  sister-in-law,  when  Marjorie  and 
Beverly  were  in  the  midst  of  an  animated  discus- 
sion about  Captain  John  Smith  and  Pocahontas. 

"  She  is  charming,"  Mrs.  Randolph  answered, 
smiling.  "  It  is  strange  how  much  environment 
has  to  do  with  appearance." 

"  And  now  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  your 
room,  Marjorie,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph  as  they 
rose  from  the  breakfast  table.     "  You  will  want 


IN  THE  SUNNZ  SOUTH     257 

to  unpack  and  wash  up  a  little  after  that  dusty 
journey.  I  have  asked  some  cousins  of  ours,  the 
Pattersons,  to  luncheon,  and  perhaps  this  after- 
noon you  and  Beverly  will  like  to  go  for  a  ride. 
I  needn't  ask  if  you  are  accustomed  to  riding; 
every  girl  brought  up  on  a  ranch  must  be." 

"  I  have  ridden  ever  since  I  can  remember," 
said  Marjorie,  her  eyes  sparkling  at  the  prospect 
of  the  coming  pleasure.  "  I  would  rather  ride  a 
horse  than  do  anything  else  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Randolph  laughed,  and  led  the  way  up  a 
broad  oak  staircase,  and  along  a  wide  hall,  to  the 
prettiest  little  room  imaginable,  all  furnished  in 
pink  and  white;  a  typical  girl's  room,  as  Marjorie 
saw  at  the  first  glance. 

"  I  have  put  you  here  because  this  room  is  next 
to  mine,"  Mrs.  Randolph  explained.  "  I  thought 
you  would  like  it  better  than  being  away  down  at 
the  other  end  of  the  hall.  This  was  my  little 
Barbara's  room,"  she  added  softly;  "  no  one  has 
slept  here  since  she  left  it,  and  nothing  has  been 
changed." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Randolph,"  cried  Marjorie,  grate- 
fully, "  how  very  good  you  are  to  me,  but  are  you 
sure  you  really  want  me  to  have  this  room  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  am  quite  sure  I  do.  If  my  Bar- 
bara were  alive  I  know  she  would  love  you, 


258     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

and  I  like  to  think  I  shall  have  a  little  girl  next 
to  me  again  to-night.,, 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  Marjorie  flung  her 
arms  round  Mrs.  Randolph's  neck  and  hugged 
her.  She  did  not  speak  —  words  did  not  come 
easily  just  then  —  but  Barbara's  mother  under- 
stood, and  the  kiss  she  gave  in  return  was  a  very 
tender  one. 

When  Marjorie  was  left  alone,  her  first  occu- 
pation was  to  look  about  the  room,  and  examine 
all  its  details.  It  was  very  simple,  but  every- 
thing was  in  perfect  taste,  and  the  girl  admired  it 
all,  from  the  pretty  china  ornaments  on  the  bu- 
reau, to  the  row  of  books  on  a  shelf  over  the  writ- 
ing-desk. She  took  down  one  of  the  books  rev- 
erently; it  seemed  almost  like  sacrilege  to  touch 
these  things  that  had  belonged  to  another  girl, 
whose  death  had  been  so  very  sad.  It  was 
"Lorna  Boone,"  and  on  the  fly-leaf  Marjorie 
read,  "  To  Barbara  Randolph,  from  her  affection- 
ate cousin,  Grace  Patterson."  Then  she  exam- 
ined the  framed  photographs  on  the  mantel- 
piece; Mrs.  Randolph  and  Beverly,  and  a  gentle- 
man whom  she  supposed  must  have  been  Bar- 
bara's father.  There  were  other  photographs  as 
well,  one  in  particular  of  a  girl  with  curly  hair, 
and  a  very  friendly  expression,   and  Marjorie 


IN  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH     259 

wondered  if  she  could  be  the  cousin,  who  had 
given  Barbara  "  Lorna  Doone."  It  was  strange 
how  intimate  she  was  beginning  to  feel  with  this 
Barbara,  who  had  died  nearly  three  years  ago. 

Marjorie  had  just  finished  her  unpacking  when 
there  was  a  tap  at  her  door,  and  in  answer  to  her 
"  Come  in,"  a  girl  of  about  her  own  age  pre- 
sented herself.  One  glance  was  sufficient  to  as- 
sure Marjorie  that  she  was  the  same  curly-haired, 
friendly- faced  girl,  whose  photograph,  in  a  silver 
frame,  stood  in  a  prominent  place  on  the  writing- 
desk. 

"  I'm  Grace  Patterson/'  announced  the  visitor, 
in  a  voice  as  friendly  as  her  face.  "  Cousin  Bar- 
bara told  me  to  come  right  up;  my  brother  and 
I  have  come  over  especially  to  see  you." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Marjorie, 
shaking  hands,  and  drawing  forward  a  chair  for 
her  guest.  "  I've  just  been  looking  at  your  pic- 
ture," she  added,  smiling. 

Grace  Patterson  glanced  about  the  room,  and  a 
shade  of  sadness  crossed  her  bright  face. 

"  It  seems  so  strange  to  be  in  this  room  again," 
she  said ;  "  I  haven't  been  here  since  poor  Babs 
—  you've  heard  about  Babs,  of  course?  " 

Marjorie  nodded. 

"  She  was  my  chum,"  said  Grace,  with  a  little 


26o    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

catch  in  her  voice,  "  and  one  of  the  dearest  girls 
that  ever  lived.  We  were  almost  the  same  age, 
and  as  neither  of  us  had  any  sisters,  we  were  to- 
gether a  great  deal.  Babs  had  a  governess,  and 
my  younger  brother  and  I  used  to  come  over  here 
every  day  for  lessons.  Our  place  is  only  two 
miles  away,  and  my  mother  and  Cousin  Barbara 
are  great  friends.  It  nearly  killed  poor  Cousin 
Barbara." 

"  I  know,"  said  Marjorie.  "  It  was  lovely  of 
Mrs.  Randolph  to  let  me  have  this  room.  I  have 
been  so  interested  in  Barbara  ever  since  I  first 
heard  about  her,  but  I  don't  like  to  talk  to  her 
mother  or  brother  about  her." 

"  You  know  how  it  happened,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  Beverly  told  me  that.  It  must  have 
been  a  frightful  shock  to  you  all." 

"  Frightful !  I  should  say  it  was.  Even  Bev- 
erly has  never  been  quite  the  same  since.  He 
was  devoted  to  Babs,  and  they  were  such  chums. 
I  don't  think  it  would  have  been  quite  so  terrible 
if  they  could  have  recognized  her  afterward,  but 
she  was  so  frightfully  injured  —  oh,  I  can't  bear 
to  talk  about  it!  They  recognized  Miss  Ran- 
dolph, Bab's  aunt,  but  poor  Babs  was  completely 
crushed,  and  —  oh,  let's  come  downstairs.  I 
can't  stand  it  up  here;  it  gives  me  the  horrors." 


IN  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH     261 

There  were  more  questions  Mar j one  would 
have  liked  to  ask,  but  the  subject  was  evidently 
a  very  painful  one  to  her  new  acquaintance,  for 
Grace  had  grown  rather  pale,  and  there  was  a 
look  of  horror  in  her  eyes.  So  she  said  no  more, 
and  the  two  girls  went  downstairs,  where  they 
found  the  family  assembled,  and  where  Marjorie 
was  introduced  to  Harry  Patterson  —  Grace's 
brother  —  a  pleasant-faced  boy  of  seventeen. 

The  Pattersons  stayed  to  luncheon,  and  Mar- 
jorie liked  them  immensely.  Grace  soon  recov- 
ered from  the  momentary  depression,  caused  by 
recalling  painful  memories,  and  Marjorie  was 
quite  ready  to  endorse  Beverly's  opinion  that 
"  she  was  one  of  the  jolliest  girls  going."  They 
had  a  very  merry  morning,  and  after  luncheon  it 
was  proposed  that  Marjorie  and  Beverly  should 
ride  home  with  the  Pattersons,  who  had  come 
over  on  their  ponies. 

"  Marjorie  is  pining  for  a  gallop,  I  know," 
said  Beverly,  laughing ;  "  she  is  as  wild  about 
horses  as  you  are,  Grace,  and  trained  a  colt  when 
she  was  nine." 

"  How  jolly!"  cried  Grace;  "you  and  I  can 
have  some  fine  rides  together,  Marjorie.  I 
haven't  had  a  girl  to  ride  with  since — "  Grace 
did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  Marjorie  knew  by 


262    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

her  suddenly  heightened  color,  and  the  glance 
she  gave  Beverly,  that  she  was  thinking  of  her 
cousin  Barbara. 

"  I  declare  they've  brought  Nelly  Gray  for  you 
to  ride!"  whispered  Grace  to  Marjorie,  as  the 
two  girls  stood  on  the  veranda,  waiting  to  mount. 
"  I  didn't  know  any  one  rode  her  now." 

"  She's  a  beauty,"  said  Marjorie,  with  an  ad- 
miring glance  at  the  handsome  little  chestnut 
mare,  which  was  being  led  up  to  the  door  by  a 
groom. 

"  Oh,  she's  a  love !  She  was  Babs's  pony,  and 
Babs  loved  her  dearly.  I  remember  she  taught 
her  to  take  sugar  out  of  her  pocket." 

Nelly  Gray  certainly  was  "  a  love  "  and  Mar- 
jorie enjoyed  that  ride  as  she  had  enjoyed  few 
things  since  leaving  her  Western  home.  It  was 
a  beautiful  afternoon,  and  Nelly  herself  appeared 
to  enjoy  it  almost  as  much  as  her  rider.  They 
took  the  longest  way  round  to  the  Patterson 
home,  and  when  they  had  left  their  friends,  Bev- 
erly proposed  that  they  should  ride  a  few  miles 
farther,  and  come  home  by  a  different  road. 

"  I  think  I  could  ride  all  night  without  getting 
tired,"  laughed  Marjorie.  "  This  is  an  ador- 
able pony." 

"  She  was  my  sister's  pony,"  said  Beverly. 


IN  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH     263 

"  Yes,  I  know,  your  cousin  told  me.  It  was 
awfully  good  of  you  and  your  mother  to  let  me 
ride  her." 

Beverly  said  nothing,  and  they  rode  on  for  a 
few  moments  in  silence,  both  young  faces  unusu- 
ally grave.     Marjorie  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  your  mother  understand 
how  much  I  appreciate  all  she  has  done  for  me," 
she  said,  impulsively.  "  Do  you  know  she  has 
given  me  your  sister's  room?  " 

"  Yes,  she  told  me  she  was  going  to.  Mother 
is  very  fond  of  you,  and  she  says  she  thinks  Babs 
would  have  loved  you,  too." 

"  I  know  I  should  have  loved  her,"  said  Mar- 
jorie, earnestly.  "  Grace  has  been  telling  me 
about  her,  and  I  have  been  looking  at  all  her 
things." 

"  She  was  almost  as  fond  of  riding  as  you  are," 
said  Beverly.  "  She  was  such  a  plucky  little 
girl;  never  afraid  of  anything.  She  rode  better 
than  any  girl  in  the  neighborhood." 

Beverly's  voice  sounded  a  little  husky,  and 
Marjorie  thought  it  might  be  best  to  change  the 
subject,  so  she  launched  into  an  account  of  a 
"  round  up  "  she  had  once  seen,  and  the  rest  of 
the  ride  was  a  very  merry  one. 

"  Will  you  mind  if  I  stop  for  a  moment  to 


264     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

speak  to  my  old  mammy?  "  Beverly  asked,  as  they 
were  on  their  way  home.  "  She  lives  in  one  of 
these  cabins,  and  I  know  she'll  be  on  the  lookout 
for  me." 

"Of  course  I  won't  mind,"  said  Marjorie, 
promptly ;  "  I  shall  love  it.  I've  never  seen  a 
real  colored  mammy,  but  I've  often  read  about 
them  in  stories." 

"  Well,  you  shall  see  one  now.  Ours  was  the 
genuine  article,  though  people  pretend  to  say  the 
old-fashioned  darky  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  She 
was  devoted  to  Babs  and  me,  although  she  was  a 
firm  believer  in  the  efficacy  of  the  rod.  We 
loved  her  dearly,  and  minded  her  better  than  we 
minded  Mother.  She  was  put  on  the  pension 
list  several  years  ago,  and  now  has  a  cabin  to 
herself.  Here  it  is,  and  there's  Mammy  on  the 
watch  for  us,  as  I  was  sure  she  would  be.  Hello, 
Mammy,  here's  your  bad  boy  back  again!  " 

Beverly  sprang  to  the  ground,  and  the  next 
moment  was  being  rapturously  hugged  by  a  very 
stout  old  negress,  with  a  turban  on  her  head. 
She  was  so  exactly  Marjorie's  idea  of  what  a 
mammy  ought  to  be,  that  the  girl  was  delighted, 
and  sat  looking  on  with  deep  interest,  while  Bev- 
erly and  his  old  nurse  exchanged  greetings. 
Then    Marjorie    herself    was    introduced,    and 


IN  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH     265 

Mammy  begged  them  both  to  tie  their  horses, 
and  come  in  for  a  cup  of  tea.  But  Beverly  de- 
clared it  was  too  late,  and  they  finally  made 
their  escape,  having  promised  to  come  another 
day,  for  a  feast  of  the  waffles,  for  which  it  ap- 
peared Mammy  was  famous. 

"It  has  been  one  of  the  loveliest  days  I've 
ever  had/'  Marjorie  declared,  as  they  rode  up  the 
avenue  at  Randolph  Place,  in  the  light  of  the  set- 
ting sun.  "  I  shall  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I 
live,  and  I  shall  have  so  much  to  write  home  in 
my  next  letter,  that  I  believe  it  will  fill  a  volume." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  VIRGINIA   CHRISTMAS 

"  Randolph  Place, 

"  December  26th. 
"  Darling  Aunt  Jessie  : 

"  Christmas  is  over,  and  it  really  wasn't  half 
as  bad  as  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be.  But  be- 
fore I  begin  writing  about  anything  else,  I  must 
tell  you  how  happy  I  was  to  get  all  your  dear 
home  letters.  Uncle  Henry  was  so  kind  about 
forwarding  them  as  soon  as  they  reached  New 
York,  and  I  had  them  all  on  Christmas  Eve. 
Aunt  Julia  wrote  me  the  box  has  come,  too,  but 
she  will  have  to  keep  that  until  I  get  back  the  end 
of  next  week.  How  I  shall  adore  every  single 
thing  in  it! 

"  I  sent  mother  a  few  lines  the  morning  I  got 
here,  but  that  was  before  I  had  found  out  how 
beautiful  it  all  is.  It  is  just  like  the  Southern 
plantations  one  reads  about  in  stories,  and  every- 
thing is  very  interesting.  There  is  even  a  dear 
old  black  mammy,  who  lives  in  a  cabin,  and  has 
266 


A  VIRGINIA  CHRISTMAS    267 

asked  Beverly  and  me  to  come  and  have  waffles 
some  afternoon.  All  the  servants  are  black,  and 
the  butler  has  lived  in  the  family  nearly  forty 
years.  Then  the  neighbors  are  just  the  kind  one 
reads  of,  so  kind  and  hospitable,  and  always  hav- 
ing good  times.  I  think  I  like  Southerners  bet- 
ter than  New  Yorkers ;  they  make  me  feel  much 
more  at  home.  I  have  met  a  good  many  of 
them,  for  we  went  to  a  Christmas  dance  at  the 
Pattersons',  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  I  had  a  per- 
fectly gorgeous  time.  The  Pattersons  are  cou- 
sins of  the  Randolphs',  and  Grace,  the  girl,  is 
just  my  age,  and  awfully  nice;  but  then  every- 
body here  is  nice,  and  I  am  having  the  very  best 
time  that  it  is  possible  for  a  girl  to  have. 

"  The  riding  is  the  greatest  pleasure  of  all. 
Beverly  and  I  have  been  out  for  a  ride  every 
day,  and  he  enjoys  it  almost  as  much  as  I  do. 
They  have  given  me  the  dearest  little  chestnut  to 
ride,  and  it  is  a  great  honor,  because  she  be- 
longed to  Beverly's  sister,  who  was  killed  in  the 
San  Francisco  earthquake,  and  scarcely  any  one 
has  ridden  her  since.  She  is  very  gentle,  and  so 
friendly  that  she  will  take  sugar  out  of  my 
pocket.  Beverly  says  his  sister  taught  her  to  do 
that. 

"  But  if  I  go  on  chattering  like  this,  I  shall 


268     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

never  get  to  Christmas,  which  was  the  most  in- 
teresting of  all.  The  Virginians  seem  to  think  a 
great  deal  of  Christmas,  and  nearly  all  the  day 
before  we  were  busy  dressing  a  tree  for  the  little 
negroes  on  the  plantation.  Mrs.  Randolph  had 
brought  presents  from  New  York  for  all  of  them, 
and  for  the  fathers  and  mothers  as  well.  Bev- 
erly says  she  has  done  the  same  thing  every 
Christmas  since  her  little  girl  died ;  it  is  a  sort  of 
memorial,  I  suppose.  We  all  hung  up  our  stock- 
ings, even  Mrs.  Randolph  and  the  doctor,  who  is 
just  as  nice  and  jolly  as  he  can  be,  though  Grace 
Patterson  says  some  people  are  afraid  of  him. 
It  was  late  when  we  got  back  from  the  Patter- 
sons' party  on  Christmas  Eve,  but  after  I  was  in 
bed  I  heard  Mrs.  Randolph  going  about  softly, 
filling  the  stockings,  which  were  all  hung  outside 
our  doors. 

"  I  was  so  tired  after  the  party,  that  I  didn't 
wake  till  after  seven,  and  then  the  very  first  thing 
I  did  was  to  run  and  look  at  my  stocking.  It 
was  stuffed  full  of  good  things ;  oranges,  candy, 
figs  and  dates,  and  just  as  I  thought  I  had 
reached  the  bottom,  I  felt  something  hard  away 
down  in  the  toe.  What  do  you  think  it  was? 
You  will  never  guess,  so  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
right  away;  it  was  a  little  velvet  box,  and  inside 


A  VIRGINIA  CHRISTMAS    269 

was  a  ring,  a  beautiful  gold  ring,  with  two  ador- 
able little  pearls  in  it!  That  was  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph's Christmas  present,  and  the  loveliest  thing 
I  have  ever  had  in  my  life.  I  was  so  happy  when 
I  saw  it  that  I  cried;  I  know  it  was  dreadfully 
silly,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I 
could  show  it  to  you  this  minute,  but  you  will  see 
it  when  I  come  home  next  June,  and  all  my  other 
presents,  too,  for  the  ring  wasn't  the  only  one. 
When  I  came  down  to  breakfast  there  were  more 
parcels  beside  my  plate;  two  nice  books  from 
Beverly,  and  a  gold  bracelet  from  the  doctor. 
Just  think  of  it,  two  pieces  of  jewelry  in  one  day! 
I  am. sure  I  didn't  deserve  such  beautiful  things, 
but  when  I  told  them  so,  and  tried  to  thank  them, 
they  only  laughed. 

"  In  the  morning  we  went  to  church,  and  the 
Christmas  music  was  lovely.  We  met  the  Pat- 
tersons at  church,  and  they  all  came  home  with 
us  to  dinner.  Oh,  such  a  dinner!  I  don't  see 
how  any  one  could  possibly  ever  eat  so  many 
things.  There  were  more  dishes  than  I  have 
ever  imagined  possible  for  one  meal,  and  every 
single  one  was  delicious. 

u  After  dinner  came  the  tree  for  the  children, 
and  that  was  the  best  fun  of  all.  I  quite  lost  my 
heart  to  some  of  the  piccaninnies,  and  one  little 


270    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

chap,  as  black  as  coal,  was  so  adorable  that  I 
wanted  to  hug  him.  The  children  all  had  a 
beautiful  time,  and  screamed  with  delight  over 
their  presents.  How  I  wished  you  and  Mother 
could  have  seen  Mrs.  Randolph  going  about 
among  them,  speaking  so  pleasantly  to  every  one, 
and  making  them  all  feel  at  home.  After  the 
tree  had  been  stripped  they  all  had  ice  cream,  and 
I  got  hold  of  my  little  black  boy,  and  made  him 
sit  on  my  lap  while  I  fed  him  until  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  could  have  swallowed  another  mouthful. 
Then  the  old  butler,  who  is  just  like  a  negro  serv- 
ant in  a  book,  proposed  three  cheers  for  Mrs. 
Randolph,  and  you  should  have  heard  those 
darkies  yell! 

"  The  Pattersons  left  as  soon  as  the  fun  was 
over,  and  we  all  went  upstairs  to  our  rooms  to 
rest.  But  I  wasn't  a  bit  tired,  and  was  afraid 
that  if  I  sat  down  to  think  I  might  be  homesick, 
so  I  thought  I  would  go  for  a  walk.  I  was  just 
starting  when  I  saw  Mrs.  Randolph  come  out 
from  the  greenhouse,  with  her  hat  on,  and  her 
hands  full  of  beautiful  roses,  and  I  stopped  to  ask 
if  she  were  going  for  a  walk,  too,  and  if  I  might 
go  with  her.  She  hesitated  for  a  minute,  and 
then  said  I  might  come  if  I  liked,  but  she  was 
afraid  I  would  find  it  sad;  she  was  going  to  the 


A  VIRGINIA  CHRISTMAS    271 

cemetery  to  put  flowers  on  her  little  girl's  grave. 
She  said  it  quite  calmly,  but  there  was  such  a  sad 
look  in  her  eyes,  and  I  was  horribly  embarrassed, 
for  I  was  afraid  I  ought  not  to  have  suggested 
going  with  her.  ;But  she  assured  me  she  would 
really  like  to  have  me,  if  I  didn't  mind,  so  of 
course  I  went,  and,  oh,  Aunt  Jessie,  I  am  so  glad 
I  did.  It  was  all  beautiful  and  sacred  —  almost 
too  sacred  to  write  about,  even  to  you  and 
Mother.  The  cemetery  was  such  a  lovely,  peace- 
ful place,  and  as  it  was  quite  warm  and  pleasant. 
we  sat  down  by  Barbara  Randolph's  grave,  and 
her  mother  talked  to  me  about  her.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  has  ever  told  me  much  about  Bar- 
bara, and  I  was  so  interested  in  all  she  said.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  afraid  of  dying  again; 
Mrs.  Randolph  spoke  so  beautifully  about  it. 
She  says  she  can  never  feel  that  her  little  girl 
is  far  away,  and  she  is  quite  sure  they  will  be  to- 
gether again  some  day.  I  think  Barbara  must 
have  been  an  awfully  nice  girl;  every  one  seems 
so  fond  of  her.  Grace  Patterson  was  her  chum, 
and  she  can  hardly  speak  of  her  without  crying. 
As  for  Beverly,  he  just  can't  bear  to  talk  about 
her  at  all,  and  I  don't  dare  ask  him  a  single  ques- 
tion. Grace  says  he  was  devoted  to  her,  and  she 
adored  him.     I  wish  I  could  see  a  picture  of 


272     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

Barbara,  but  there  are  no  photographs  of  her 
about.  Mrs.  Randolph  wears  a  little  gold  locket, 
and  I  am  sure  there  is  a  miniature  of  Barbara  in- 
side, but  I  have  never  had  the  courage  to  ask 
her  to  show  it  to  me.  I  was  just  making  up 
my  mind  to  do  it  yesterday,  when  we  heard 
footsteps,  and  there  was  Beverly  himself,  bring- 
ing more  flowers.  He  didn't  know  we  were 
there,  and  looked  horribly  embarrassed  when  he 
saw  us.  Boys  always  hate  to  show  their  feel- 
ings, and  I  think  he  would  have  gone  away  again 
without  speaking  to  us,  if  his  mother  hadn't 
called  him.  She  was  so  pleased  to  see  him,  and 
after  the  first  minute  I  don't  think  he  really 
minded.  I  thought  they  might  like  to  be  alone, 
so  I  slipped  away  as  quietly  as  I  could,  and  on 
the  way  home  I  met  the  doctor,  and  he  asked 
me  to  go  for  a  walk  with  him.  I  know  you 
would  like  Dr.  Randolph ;  he  is  so  clever,  and  has 
traveled  almost  all  over  the  world.  He  told 
me  such  an  interesting  story  about  a  Christmas 
he  once  spent  in  Jerusalem.  It  is  so  pleasant 
that  he  met  Father  at  Harvard,  and  remembers 
all  about  him.  He  says  Father  was  a  very  hand- 
some boy,  and  a  great  favorite  with  the  girls. 
Doesn't  it  seem  queer  to  think  of  Father's  going 
to  dances  and  flirting  with  girls!     He  looks  so 


A  VIRGINIA  CHRISTMAS    273 

much  older  than  Dr.  Randolph,  and  yet  I  sup- 
pose they  must  be  about  the  same  age. 

"  Mrs.  Randolph  and  Beverly  were  quite  cheer- 
ful when  they  came  home,  and  I  noticed  that 
Beverly  was  very  gentle  with  his  mother  all  the 
evening.  He  is  always  nice  to  her,  and  that  is 
one  of  the  reasons  why  I  like  him  so  much. 
One  of  the  things  that  has  surprised  me  most 
of  all  in  New  York,  is  the  way  some  of  the  girls 
and  boys  speak  to  their  fathers  and  mothers.  I 
really  don't  know  what  Mother  would  do  to  me 
if  I  were  ever  to  answer  her  back  the  way  Elsie 
sometimes  answers  Aunt  Julia,  but  her  mother 
doesn't  seem  to  mind. 

"  We  had  a  quiet  evening  at  home,  but  it  was 
pleasant,  for  we  were  all  a  little  tired.  Mrs. 
Randolph  and  the  doctor  played  cribbage,  and 
Beverly  sang ;  he  has  a  lovely  voice,  but  he  won't 
often  sing.  Altogether  my  Christmas  was  a  very 
happy  one,  and  if  I  did  '  weep  a  little  weep  '  after 
I  was  in  bed,  it  was  only  natural,  considering 
it  was  my  first  Christmas  away  from  you  all. 
Oh,  Aunt  Jessie,  darling,  I  am  having  a  beautiful 
visit,  but  I  never  forget  you,  or  Father  or 
Mother,  a  single  minute!  I  love  your  letters 
better  than  anything  else,  and  I  am  just  longing 
to  get  my  hands  on  that  precious  Christmas  box. 


274     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

I  hope  you  will  all  like  the  presents  I  sent. 
Uncle  Henry  was  so  kind;  he  gave  me  twenty- 
five  dollars  to  spend  for  Christmas  presents.  I 
never  had  so  much  money  in  my  life,  but  Aunt 
Julia  helped  me  select  the  presents,  which  was  a 
great  relief,  for  I  should  never  have  known  what 
to  buy  without  her.  Things  seem  to  cost  so  much 
more  than  one  expects  them  to. 

"  I  felt  sure  you  and  Mother  would  want 
something  I  had  made  myself,  and  I  hope  you 
will  like  the  color  of  the  shawl;  Mrs.  Randolph 
thought  it  very  pretty.  I  chose  the  little  daisy 
pin  for  Undine,  because  I  liked  it  so  much  my- 
self. I  am  so  glad  you  have  all  grown  so  fond 
of  her,  and  that  she  is  happy,  and  doesn't  worry 
so  much  about  not  remembering. 

"  Beverly  is  calling  me  to  go  for  a  ride,  so 
I  must  stop  writing.  Heaps  of  hugs  and  kisses 
for  everybody  from 

f"  Your  own 

"  Marjorie.  " 


CHAPTER  XX 

MARJORIE   SEES   A   PHOTOGRAPH 

"  Don't  you  think  there  is  always  something 
very  sad  about  last  days  in  places? " 

Beverly  laughed,  and  cast  an  amused  glance 
at  his  companion's  sober  face.  He  and  Marjorie 
were  trotting  leisurely  along  a  road  where  the 
trees  met  overhead  in  summer,  although  now  the 
boughs  were  leafless,  and  there  was  a  light  cover- 
ing of  snow  on  the  ground.  It  was  their  last 
afternoon  in  Virginia,  and  they  were  making  the 
most  of  it,  despite  a  lowering  sky,  and  a  frosti- 
ness  in  the  air,  which  threatened  more  snow  be- 
fore night. 

"Just  think,"  Marjorie  went  on  mournfully, 
"  I  sha'n't  have  another  ride  for  five  whole 
months.  School  doesn't  close  till  the  first  of 
June." 

''Why  don't  you  ride  in  the  park?  Lots  of 
girls  do,  you  know.  Ask  your  uncle  to  hire  a 
horse  for  you  from  the  riding  academy." 

Marjorie  blushed. 

275 


276     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  I  don't  like  to,"  she  said,  frankly.  "  Uncle 
Henry  and  Aunt  Julia  are  doing  so  much  for  me 
already,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  ask  for  anything 
more.     Elsie  doesn't  ride  in  New  York." 

"  Well,  I  have  no  doubt  she  could  if  she  wanted 
to.  I  imagine  Miss  Elsie  generally  gets  what 
she  wants." 

"  You  don't  like  Elsie,  do  you?  "  The  words 
were  out  before  Marjorie  realized  she  had  ut- 
tered them.  The  next  moment  she  wished  she 
had  not  asked  the  question. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Beverly,  honestly. 

"  I'm  sorry ;  I  wish  you  did ;  she's  so  clever, 
and  —  and  there  are  lots  of  nice  things  about 
her.  You  see,  she  is  an  only  child,  and  her  fa- 
ther and  mother  worship  her.  I  suppose  she 
can't  help  being  a  little  spoiled." 

"  Well,  you  are  an  only  child,  too,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  your  family  are  as  fond  of  you  as 
Elsie's  are  of  her,  but  you  are  not  spoiled." 

Marjorie  was  silent.  She  felt  that  loyalty  to 
her  cousin  required  her  to  say  something  in  Elsie's 
defence,  and  yet  what  could  she  say?  After  a 
moment's  silence  Beverly  went  on. 

"  I  should  like  your  cousin  a  lot  better  if  she 
resigned  from  being  president  of  that  Club." 

"  She  —  she  tore  up  the  poem,"  faltered  Mar- 


SEES  A  PHOTOGRAPH       277 

jorie,  "  She  said  it  was  trash.  I  don't  think 
she  meant  to  do  anything  mean,  but  she  is  so 
clever,  she  couldn't  bear  to  have  any  other  poem 
better  than  hers." 

"You're  a  loyal  little  soul,  Marjorie,"  said 
Beverly,  approvingly,  "  but  all  you  can  say  won't 
alter  the  fact  that  your  cousin  did  a  mean,  con- 
temptible thing.  She  knows  I  found  her  out, 
and  she  hasn't  looked  me  straight  in  the  face 
since.  I  don't  like  sneaks  in  girls  any  better  than 
in  boys." 

Marjorie  felt  the  conversation  had  gone  far 
enough.  She  did  not  wish  to  discuss  Elsie  even 
with  Beverly  Randolph,  although  the  two  had 
become  great  friends  during  the  past  ten  days, 
so  after  a  little  pause,  she  changed  the  subject 
by  asking  her  companion  if  he  did  not  think  they 
had  better  be  turning  towards  home. 

Beverly  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"  I  suppose  we'd  better/'  he  said,  reluctantly. 
"  I  hate  to  cut  our  last  ride  short,  but  Mammy 
will  be  heart-broken  if  we  keep  her  waffles  wait- 
ing." 

"  I'm  so  glad  we  are  going  to  Mammy's  cabin," 
Marjorie  said,  as  they  turned  the  horses'  heads 
in  a  homeward  direction.  "  It  makes  me  think 
of  so  many  things  I  have  read      Don't  you  re- 


278     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

member  in  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin/  how  George 
Selby  used  to  slip  away  from  the  big  house,  and 
go  down  to  Uncle  Tom's  for  waffles  and  fried 
chicken?  Mammy  is  such  an  old  dear;  I  do 
want  to  hear  her  talk  again." 

"  She  certainly  is  a  character,"  said  Beverly, 
laughing.  "  We'll  get  her  to  tell  some  anecdotes 
about  Barbara  and  me.  According  to  Mammy 
I  must  have  been  a  pickle." 

Marjorie  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  relief 
at  having  successfully  turned  the  conversation 
away  from  Elsie  and  her  affairs,  and  she  and 
Beverly  chatted  on  pleasantly  until  they  reached 
Mammy's  cabin,  where  they  dismounted  and 
Beverly  tied  the  horses  to  the  hitching  post. 
Mammy  was  on  the  watch  for  them,  and  gave 
them  a  hearty  welcome. 

"  Now  you  jes  lay  off  yo'  tings,  and  set  down 
by  de  fiah,"  she  commanded,  placing  chairs  for 
the  visitors,  "  an'  I'll  have  dem  waffles  done  in 
a  jiffy.  Lor',  Mas'r  Bev'ly,  it  jes'  does  my  heart 
good  to  see  you  settin'  heah  in  my  kitchen,  like 
you  used  to  do  when  you  an'  Miss  Babs  —  now 
Mas'r  Bev'ly,  don't  you  tease  my  Josephus;  he 
mighty  'telligent  cat,  he  is.  He  won't  stan'  no 
foolin'." 

"He's  a  beauty,"  said  Marjorie,  stooping  to 


SEES  A  PHOTOGRAPH       279 

stroke  the  big  maltese,  who  responded  to  the 
caress  by  springing  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

Mammy  beamed  with  satisfaction. 

"  Josephus  likes  you  fust  rate,  Missy,"  she  said, 
approvingly.  "  He  don't  make  friends  with  mos' 
folks;  he's  too  'ristocratic.  He  knows  what's 
what,  Josephus  does." 

"  Mammy  is  the  most  delicious  snob,"  laughed 
Beverly;  "she  only  allows  Josephus  to  associate 
with  aristocratic  cats.  All  the  unfortunate 
plebeian  cats  in  the  neighborhood  are  driven 
away  with  a  stick." 

"  Cose  dey  is,"  declared  Mammy,  indignantly. 
"  What  yo  s'pose  I  want  common,  no-'count  cats 
botherin'  round  heah  for?  Ain't  I  always  lived 
in  de  most  'ristocratic  Virginia  fam'lies,  and 
wasn't  my  paw  own  body-servant  to  ole  General 
Putnam,  an'  my  maw  bought  by  Mas'r  Ran- 
dolph's father  when  she  weren't  more'n  ten  years 
old,  an'  brought  up  in  de  house,  to  be  maid  to  de 
young  ladies?  I'se  lived  in  de  fust  fam'lies,  I 
has,  and  I'm  proud  of  it,  too." 

"  What  a  perfectly  heavenly  place !  "  whis- 
pered Marjorie  to  Beverly,  with  a  glance  round 
the  neat  little  kitchen,  as  the  old  negress  bustled 
away  intent  on  household  duties. 

"  You  must  get  Mammy  to  show  you  the  family 


280     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

photographs  before  we  go,"  said  Beverly;  "she 
has  quite  a  gallery,  and  can  give  you  the  separate 
history  of  each  picture.  Ah,  here  come  the 
waffles.  Nobody  can  beat  you  on  waffles, 
Mammy." 

The  old  woman  grinned. 

"  Cose  dey  cyan't,"  she  said,  placidly.  "  Dere 
cyan't  nobody  in  dese  parts  beat  me  on  waffles 
and  corn-bread.  Folks  comes  askin'  for  my 
recipes,  but  it  ain't  de  recipe  dat  does  it,  it's  de 
light  hand.  Now  Mas'r  Bev'ly,  don't  you  take 
de  whole  dishful;  dere's  plenty  more  comin'. 
Lor'  sakes,  Missy,  you  jes'  oughter  seen  de  way 
dat  boy  would  go  in  for  waffles  an'  maple  syrup 
when  he  was  little.  Do  you  'member  de  day, 
Mas'r  Bev'ly,  when  yo  maw  was  havin'  lot  of 
comp'ny  for  tea,  an'  yo'  an'  Miss  Babs  sneaked 
into  de  pantry,  and  eat  up  all  de  lobster  salad 
'fo'  de  comp'ny  got  a  chance  to  have  it?  What 
a  swattin'  I  did  give  de  two  of  you'  for  dat!  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  remember  it,"  said  Beverly, 
laughing.  "  I  deserved  the  *  swatting '  more 
than  Babs  did,  for  she  was  only  four  and  I  was 
eight." 

"Dat's  true;  but  yo'  bofe  deserved  it  bad 
enough.  Lordie!  How  dat  chile  Babs  could 
stuff!     Notin'  ever  hurted  her,  and  de  wust  of  it 


SEES  A  PHOTOGRAPH       281 

was,  she  didn't  mind  castor  oil  no  more'n  if  it 
was  molasses.  Have  some  more  syrup,  Missy; 
waffles  ain't  no  good  without  plenty  of  syrup. 
You  was  forever  gettin'  Miss  Babs  into  mischief, 
Mas'r  Bev'ly.  I'll  never  forget  de  day  I  dressed 
de  two  of  you  in  yo'  best  white  suits,  cause  yo' 
grandmother  Randolph  was  comin'  on  a  visit, 
an'  de  minute  my  back  was  turned  you  was  bofe 
off  to  de  swamp.  My,  what  sights  you  was  when 
I  found  you!  Miss  Babs  had  tumbled  in,  an' 
yo'  two  faces  was  as  black  as  mine,  and  you  was 
all  over  black  mud.  You  bofe  got  a  good  whip- 
pin',  an'  was  put  to  bed  in  de  middle  of  de  day, 
but  Lordie!  What  good  did  it  do?  Miss  Babs 
was  sound  asleep  in  ten  minutes,  and  never  woke 
up  till  nex'  mornin\  Nottin'  ever  upset  her  fo' 
long;  God  bless  her." 

The  old  woman's  voice  grew  very  gentle  and 
Beverly,  who  had  been  smiling  over  the  childish 
reminiscences,  grew  suddenly  grave.  But  Mammy 
was  a  cheerful  soul,  and  she  did  not  intend 
to  sadden  the  young  people's  visit. 

"  Well,  de  Lord  has  his  reasons,  I  s'pose,"  she 
said,  with  a  sigh,  "  but  dey  does  seem  hard  to 
make  out  sometimes.  Jes'  'scuse  me  one  minute; 
I  got  some  hot  ones  on  de  fiah." 

When  Marjorie  and  Beverly  had  eaten  so  many 


282     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

waffles  that  they  felt  as  though  they  should  not 
require  anything  more  in  the  way  of  food  for 
days,  Mammy  reluctantly  desisted  from  her 
hospitable  efforts  to  force  another  plateful  upon 
her  visitors,  and  the  hospitably  entertained  young 
people  .rose  to  go. 

"  I've  had  a  lovely  time,"  declared  Marjorie, 
heartily.  "  It  was  dear  of  you  to  let  me  come, 
Mammy;  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"  Any  frien'  of  de  Randolph  fam'ly  is  always 
welcome  to  my  cabin,"  said  Mammy,  with  the 
air  of  a  queen  dispensing  hospitality  to  her  sub- 
jects. "  Would  you  like  to  see  de  fam'ly  pictures 
'fo'  you  go?" 

Marjorie  said  she  would  like  nothing  better, 
and  while  Beverly  went  out  to  untie  the  horses, 
she  followed  Mammy  into  her  tiny  bedroom, 
the  walls  of  which  were  literally  covered  with 
photographs. 

"  Dis,"  announced  Mammy,  pausing  in  the 
doorway,  and  pointing  to  a  gentleman  in  uni- 
form, "  is  Mas'r  Will  Randolph,  Mas'r  Bev'ly's 
gran' father,  took  in  de  clothes  he  wore  when  he 
went  to  de  wah.  Dis  lady  is  his  wife,  de  mis* 
Randolph  dat  brought  up  my  maw;  a  gran'  lady 
she  was  too.  Dis  is  Mas'r  Bev'ly's  father  when 
he  went  away  to  school,  jes  after  de  wah  was 


SEES  A  PHOTOGRAPH       283 

over.  Dis  one  is  Mas'r  Bev'ly's  maw  in  her 
first  ball  dress,  Dat's  Mas'r  Bev'ly  when  he  was 
a  baby,  and  here's  Miss  Babs  in  her  fust  short 
clothes.  Over  on  dis  side  is  Mas'r  Bev'ly  when 
he  was  seven,  and  dis  is  —  oh,  good  Lordie, 
Missy,  whatever  is  de  matter?" 

Marjorie  —  who  had  been  following  Mammy 
from  one  photograph  to  another,  with  amused 
interest  —  had  suddenly  uttered  a  sharp  cry  of 
astonishment,  and  was  staring  blankly  at  the  pho- 
tograph of  a  girl  of  twelve,  which  was  occupying 
the  place  of  honor  over  Mammy's  bed. 

"Who  —  who  is  that?"  she  gasped,  seizing 
the  old  woman's  arm,  and  beginning  to  tremble 
with  excitement. 

"  Dat  Miss  Babs,  took  jes'  'fo'  she  went  away 
to  Californy,"  said  Mammy,  sadly.  "  Land 
sakes,  Missy!  What  is  it?  You  jes'  sit  right 
down  heah,  an'  I'll  go  call  Mas'r  Bev'ly." 

When  Beverly  appeared  in  answer  to  Mam- 
my's hasty  summons,  he  found  Marjorie  ghastly 
white,  and  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Good  gracious,  Marjorie !  "  exclaimed  the 
boy,  springing  to  her  side,  "  what's  the  matter? 
Don't  you  feel  well  — is  it  the  waffles?  " 

"It's  — it's  Undine!"  faltered  Marjorie,  with 
shaking  lips,  and  she  pointed  to  the  photograph 


284    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

on  which  her  eyes  still  rested,  in  a  wild,  incredu- 
lous stare. 

"  '  Undine/  "  repeated  Beverly,  stupidly,  "  who 
is  Undine?  That  is  the  picture  of  my  sister 
Barbara. " 

"  It's  Undine,"  repeated  Marjorie,  with  obsti- 
nate persistence;  "it's  exactly  like  her;  I  would 
know  her  anywhere." 

"  But  who  is  Undine?  I  never  even  heard  of 
her?" 

"  Yes,  you  did;  I  told  you  about  her  once,  and 
you  said  I  mustn't  mention  her  to  your  mother, 
because  she  was  hurt  in  the  earthquake.  We 
called  her  Undine,  because  she  couldn't  remem- 
ber her  real  name,  or  anything  that  happened 
to  her  before  the  earthquake.  That's  her  photo- 
graph, Beverly,  I  tell  you  it  is  —  it  is!  " 

Beverly  had  grown  very  pale,  but  he  made 
a  great  effort  at  self-control. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Marjorie,"  he  said,  al- 
most angrily;  "  I  tell  you  that  is  my  sister's  pho- 
tograph. I  can  show  you  another  just  like  it 
at  home." 

"  Beverly,''  cried  Marjorie,  clasping  her  hands, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  sudden  conviction,  "  I 
am  not  talking  nonsense.  That  is  the  picture  of 
the  girl  who  has  been  at  the  ranch  since  last 


"Land  Sakes,  Missy!     What  is  it?"~: Page  283. 


SEES  A  PHOTOGRAPH       285 

August.  She  was  found  in  the  street  just  after 
the  earthquake,  half  buried  under  some  ruins. 
She  was  unconscious,  and  they  took  her  to  a 
hospital.  She  has  never  been  able  to  remember 
anything  about  herself  since.  Your  sister  was 
in  the  earthquake,  too ;  you  think  she  was  killed, 
but  perhaps  —  oh,  Beverly  dear,  let  us  go  home 
quick,  and  tell  your  uncle  all  about  it." 

Mrs.  Randolph  was  in  the  library  reading. 
Twice  she  had  put  down  her  book,  and  gone  to 
the  window  to  look  out.  It  was  growing  dark, 
and  had  begun  to  snow. 

"  How  late  they  are,"  she  said  to  herself,  with 
an  anxious  glance  at  the  clock.  "  They  ought 
to  be  back  by  this  time,  but  I  suppose  they  have 
stayed  listening  to  Mammy's  stories,  and  forgot- 
ten the  time." 

She  sat  down  again  by  the  fire,  and  took  up 
her  book.  But  she  was  feeling  restless  and 
nervous  that  afternoon,  though  she  could  not 
have  told  why,  and  after  reading  a  page,  she 
closed  the  book  again. 

"  I  wish  they  would  come,"  she  said,  im- 
patiently. "  No  one  knows  what  may  have  hap- 
pened; they  may  never  have  reached  Mammy's 
cabin.  I  think  I  will  go  and  speak  to  George. 
He  will  laugh  at  me  for  worrying,  but  that  will 


286    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

be  better  than  sitting  here  by  myself.  There's 
the  clock  striking  six;  they  should  have  been  in 
an  hour  ago." 

She  rose,  and  was  moving  towards  the  door 
when  she  heard  an  approaching  footstep,  and  in 
another  moment  her  brother-in-law  himself  came 
into  the  room. 

"  I  was  just  coming  to  look  for  you,  George," 
she  said;  "I  am  getting  a  little  anxious  about 
the  children." 

"  The  children  are  all  right,"  said  the  doctor, 
quietly,  sinking  into  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire; 
"  they  came  in  half  an  hour  ago,  and  have  gone 
to  their  rooms.  Marjorie  was  feeling  a  little 
upset,  and  I  advised  her  to  go  and  lie  down  till 
dinner-time." 

Mrs.  Randolph  turned  towards  the  door  again. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  and  see  if  there  is  anything 
I  can  do  for  her,"  she  said.  "  It  isn't  like  Mar- 
jorie to  give  up ;  I'm  afraid  she  isn't  well." 

But  Dr.  Randolph  held  out  a  detaining  hand. 

"  Sit  down,  Barbara,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  talk 
to  you.  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  Mar- 
jorie or  Beverly  either.  They  have  had  a  long 
ride,  and  stopped  at  Mammy's  for  waffles.  I 
want  to  ask  you  a  favor.  I  have  just  received 
some  important  news,  which  will  necessitate  my 


SEES  A  PHOTOGRAPH       287 

going  West  at  once,  and  I  want  you  to  let  Beverly 
go  with  me." 

Mrs.  Randolph  was  very  much  surprised. 

"  But,  George  dear,"  she  remonstrated  gently, 
"  college  begins  again  on  Monday  —  do  you 
think  it  wise  to  take  the  boy  away  just  now?  " 

"  I  shall  not  be  gone  more  than  a  week,  and 
I  want  Beverly  for  company.  He  has  never  seen 
much  of  his  own  country,  and  this  trip  to  Ari- 
zona will  do  him  an  immense  amount  of  good. 
As  for  college,  a  few  days  more  or  less  won't 
make  any  material  difference,  and  he  can  make 
up  for  lost  time  when  he  gets  back." 

Mrs.  Randolph  still  looked  doubtful,  but  the 
doctor  was  Beverly's  guardian,  and  since  her 
husband's  death  she  had  been  accustomed  to  de- 
pend upon  his  judgment  and  advice.  So  instead 
of  arguing  the  point,  she  only  said : 

"  Of  course  he  may  go  if  you  think  best, 
George,  only  it  does  seem  foolish  to  take  him 
away  so  soon  again  after  his  holidays." 

"  I  do  think  it  best,  Barbara,"  said  the  doctor, 
decidedly.  "  I  want  the  boy  with  me  very  much. 
I  must  start  as  soon  as  possible.  Do  you  think 
you  could  persuade  Emma  Patterson  to  go  home 
with  you  and  Marjorie  to-morrow,  and  stay  till 
Beverly  and  I  come  back?  " 


288     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  I  can  try,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph,  who  was  still 
unconvinced  of  the  wisdom  of  this  sudden  whim 
of  her  brother-in-law's,  and  a  little  uneasy  as 
well.  "  Emma  has  promised  to  visit  us  later; 
perhaps  she  would  be  willing  to  come  now  in- 
stead. You  know,  George  dear,  I  never  ask  you 
about  your  cases,  but  this  seems  so  very  sudden 
—  are  you  going  to  see  a  patient?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly.  "  I  may  be 
able  to  tell  you  more  about  the  case  when  I  come 
back,  but  I  cannot  now." 

Mrs.  Randolph  regarded  him  anxiously. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,  George,"  she 
said,  "  you  are  dreadfully  pale.  Is  that  why 
you  don't  want  to  take  this  long  journey  alone?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  I  am  perfectly  well,  but  — 
well,  the  fact  is,  this  may  prove  a  very  trying 
business,  and  I  want  the  boy  with  me." 

"  Then  you  shall  certainly  have  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Randolph,  with  decision.  "  Have  you  spoken  to 
Beverly  on  the  subject?'' 

"  Yes,  and  he  is  most  anxious  to  go.  Now  I 
must  make  arrangements  about  accommodations 
on  the  train,  for  I  want  to  be  off  early  in  the 
morning,  if  possible.  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  idea 
to  telephone  Emma  Patterson  at  once,  and  see 


SEES  A  PHOTOGRAPH       289 

if  she  can  be  ready  to  go  with  you  and  Mar- 
jorie?  " 

Mrs.  Randolph  stood  for  a  moment,  looking 
after  her  brother-in-law  as  he  left  the  room. 

"  There  is  something  wrong/'  she  said :  "  I 
never  saw  George  so  agitated  before.  I  wish  I 
knew  what  it  was,  but  doctors  don't  like  to  be 
questioned.  I  hate  to  have  Beverly  lose  a  whole 
week  of  college,  but  if  his  uncle  needs  him,  I 
have  nothing  more  to  say."  And,  with  a  re- 
signed sigh,  she  went  away  to  telephone  to  her 
cousin,  Mrs.  Patterson. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

UNDINE   REMEMBERS 

"fA  Highland  laddie  lives  over  the  lea; 

A  laddie  both  noble  and  gallant  and  free, 
Who  loved  a  lassie  as  noble  as  he  — 

A  bonnie  sweet  lassie;  the  maid  of  Dundee.'" 

Mrs.  Graham  glanced  up  from  her  sewing, 
with  a  smile. 

"  What  a  sweet  voice  that  child  has,"  she  said; 
"  with  training  I  believe  she  would  sing  re- 
markably well." 

"  I  love  to  hear  her  singing  about  the  house," 
said  Miss  Jessie,  also  pausing  to  listen  to  the 
clear  young  voice;  "  I  wonder  where  she  learned 
all  those  old  songs.  I  remember  that  ballad,  but 
I  haven't  heard  it  since  I  was  a  child." 

"  She  probably  picks  them  up  from  Jim,"  Mrs. 
Graham  suggested;  "  he  is  always  singing  about 
the  place." 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  Jim  sing  this 
one,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  reflectively.  "  Susie,  I 
do  wish  we  could  find  out  something  about  the 
290 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       291 

child's  family.  I  feel  sure  she  has  been  brought 
up  among  people  of  refinement." 

"  She  is  a  very  attractive  girl,"  Mrs.  Graham 
agreed,  "  but  if  she  has  relatives  it  seems  in- 
credible that  they  should  never  have  made  the 
slightest  effort  to  find  her.  Donald  and  I  were 
talking  about  her  last  night.  He  thinks  that 
any  relatives  she  had  must  have  been  killed  in 
the  earthquake.  It  seems  the  only  explanation. 
There  is  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  wait  patiently 
in  the  hope  that  Undine  may  some  time  be  able 
to  tell  us  everything  herself.  I  confess  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  part  with  her;  she  has  been  a 
great  help  and  comfort  since  Marjorie  went 
away." 

"  She  has  indeed,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  heartily. 
"  I  have  grown  very  fond  of  her,  and  I  think 
she  cares  for  us,  too.  We  should  have  another 
letter  from  Marjorie  by  this  time." 

"  Yes,  Jim  has  gone  for  the  mail ;  he  may 
bring  one  this  afternoon.  It  does  my  heart  good 
to  know  the  dear  child  is  having  such  a  happy 
holiday.  I  would  like  to  write  and  thank  Mrs. 
Randolph  for  all  her  kindness  to  Marjorie;  she 
must  be  a  lovely  woman." 

"  I  am  sure  she  is,  and  the  son  must  be  a  nice 
boy,  too,  judging  from  what  Marjorie  says.     Our 


292     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

little  girl  has  made  some  good  friends,  as  I  felt 
sure  she  would." 

Mrs.  Graham  rose,  and  began  folding  up  her 
work. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  kitchen  to  look  after 
Juanita,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a  lovely  afternoon. 
Why  don't  you  get  Undine  to  wheel  you  out  in 
the  sun  for  an  hour?  " 

"  I  think  I  will,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  with  a  glance 
out  of  the  windows  at  the  cloudless  sky  and  bril- 
liant winter  sunshine.  "  Ah,  here  comes  Undine. 
Undine  dear,  I  think  I  will  go  out  for  a  little 
while." 

The  bright-faced,  rosy-cheeked  girl  who  en- 
tered the  room  at  this  moment  was  a  very  differ- 
ent being  from  the  pale,  timid,  little  waif  of  four 
months  earlier.  She  had  grown  at  least  two 
inches,  and  the  clothes  which  had  hung  loosely 
about  her  in  her  first  days  at  the  ranch  had  now 
become  a  tight  fit.  At  Miss  Jessie's  request  she 
smiled,  and  came  hurrying  to  the  side  of  her 
kind  friend. 

"  It's  a  glorious  day,"  she  said ;  "  it  makes 
one  happy  just  to  be  alive.  I've  had  such  a 
wonderful  ride.  I  went  as  far  as  the  railroad, 
and  saw  the  West  Bound  pass ;  it  was  two  hours 
late.     I'll  get  your  warm  coat  and  some  wraps 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       293 

and  we'll  sit  behind  the  playhouse.  You  won't 
feel  the  wind  there,  and  it  will  be  heavenly." 

"  Undine,"  said  Miss  Graham  suddenly,  when 
the  two  were  comfortably  established  in  one  of 
their  favorite  nooks ;  the  invalid  in  her  chair,  and 
her  companion  on  a  rug  spread  on  the  ground; 
"  where  did  you  learn  the  song  I  heard  you  sing- 
ing when  you  came  in  from  your  ride  just  now?  " 

"  I  forget  which  it  was,"  said  Undine,  looking 
puzzled.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  — '  A  Highland 
Laddie  Lived  over  the  Lea.'  I  don't  know 
where  I  learned  it  —  isn't  it  one  of  Jim's  songs?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,  dear,  but  we  can  ask  him. 
I  never  heard  you  sing  it  before/* 

Something  of  the  old,  troubled,  far-away  look 
crept  into  Undine's  face. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  remember  things,"  she 
said,  slowly;  "they  just  come  into  my  head 
sometimes.  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  have  ever  heard  Jim  sing  that  song.  I 
must  have  heard  it  somewhere,  though." 

Miss  Graham  said  nothing,  and  therg  was  a 
short  pause,  which  Undine  broke. 

"  You  and  Mrs.  Graham  don't  like  to  have 
me  talk  about  the  things  I  can't  remember,"  she 
said,  a  little  wistfully. 

"  Only  because  we  don't  want  you  to  distress 


294    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

yourself  and  try  to  force  your  brain.  I  have 
always  told  you  I  was  sure  the  memory  would 
come  back  some  day." 

"  I  think  it  is  coming  soon,"  said  Undine, 
softly.  "  I  keep  having  dreams.  I  dreamt  of 
my  mother  last  night." 

There  was  a  quiver  in  the  girl's  voice,  and 
Miss  Jessie  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  kind  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  dear,"  she  said,  gently. 

Undine  drew  a  deep  breath  that  was  almost  a 
sob. 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  dream,"  she  said.  "  My 
mother  and  I  were  in  a  dear  little  room,  all  fur- 
nished in  pink  and  white.  I  don't  know  where 
it  was,  but  it  seemed  quite  familiar  in  the  dream. 
I  was  unhappy  about  something,  and  my  mother 
kissed  me,  and  put  her  arms  round  me.  She 
had  such  a  dear,  beautiful  face.  Oh,  Miss 
Jessie,  do  you  suppose  my  poor  mother  was 
killed  in  that  dreadful  earthquake?" 

"  My  dear  little  girl,  we  cannot  possibly  know 
that;  we  must  have  patience.  Have  you  had 
other  dreams?  " 

"  Yes.  The  other  night  I  dreamt  I  was  play- 
ing with  a  boy  in  a  swamp.  There  was  a  black 
woman  in  the  dream,  too;  she  scolded  us,  but  I 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       295 

wasn't  a  bit  afraid  of  her.  Do  you  think  per- 
haps they  were  people  I  used  to  know?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  dear ;  it  may  be  possible,  but 
you  mustn't  let  these  things  worry  you.  You 
are  happy  here  with  us,  are  you  not?" 

"  Happy!  "  cried  the  girl,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
"  I  never  expected  to  be  so  happy  anywhere.  As 
long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget  all  you  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  have  done  for  me,  but  I 
can't  help  wanting  to  remember." 

"  Of  course  you  can't;  that  is  quite  natural. 
We  all  want  you  to  remember,  too,  but  we  must 
have  patience.  The  more  you  strain  your  brain, 
the  longer  it  may  take  for  the  memory  to  come 
back.  You  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  us 
since  Marjorie  went  away;  I  told  her  so  in  my  last 
letter." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Undine,  smiling.  "  I 
promised  Marjorie  I  would  try,  but  of  course  I 
knew  I  could  never  take  her  place.  Oh,  Miss 
Jessie,  you  said  I  might  read  Marjorie's  last  let- 
ter. It  came  when  I  was  out,  you  know,  and  I 
didn't  hear  you  read  it  to  Mrs.  Graham." 

"  So  I  did,  I  am  glad  you  reminded  me,  for 
I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  It  was  written  from 
the  place  in  Virginia  where  she  has  been  spending 
the  holidays,  and  tells  all  about  their  Christmas 


296     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

festivities.  It  is  in  the  right-hand  drawer  of 
my  desk  —  you  may  read  it  whenever  you  like." 

Undine  glanced  at  the  book  in  Miss  Graham's 
lap. 

"If  you  don't  want  me  for  anything,  and  are 
going  to  stay  here  for  a  while,  I  think  I  will  go 
and  read  it  now,"  she  said;  "I  love  Marjorie's 
letters." 

"  Very  well,  dear ;  I  want  to  finish  this  book 
before  we  begin  the  one  we  are  going  to  read 
together.  It  won't  take  me  more  than  fifteen 
minutes." 

Undine  scrambled  to  her  feet. 

"All  right,"  she  said;  "I'll  be  back  before 
that.  Oh,  Miss  Jessie,  isn't  the  air  glorious  to- 
day? It  makes  me  feel  so  happy  and  excited; 
just  as  if  something  were  going  to  happen." 

Undine  tripped  away  to  the  house,  and  Miss 
Graham,  as  she  opened  her  book,  heard  the  clear 


"'A   Highland  laddie  lives   over  the  lea; 

A  laddie  both  noble  and  gallant  and  free.' " 

The  song  died  away  in  the  distance,  and  Miss 
Jessie  became  absorbed  in  her  story.  It  was 
very  still,  and  not  a  sound  came  to  disturb  her 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       297 

until  she  had  turned  the  last  page.  Then  she 
closed  the  book,  and  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  How  long  Undine  takes  to  read  that  letter !  " 
she  said  to  herself,  in  some  surprise. 

Another  ten  minutes  slipped  away,  but  Miss 
Jessie  was  accustomed  to  waiting  patiently  —  she 
had  done  little  else  for  the  past  eight  years. 

"  Susie  must  have  kept  the  child  for  some- 
thing," she  decided,  and  settled  comfortably  back 
in  her  chair  to  await  Undine's  return. 

But  it  was  not  like  her  sister-in-law  to  detain 
Undine  without  sending  some  explanation; 
neither  was  it  like  the  girl  to  remain  away  so 
long.  At  the  end  of  another  ten  minutes  Miss 
Jessie  began  to  be  a  little  curious. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter?  "  she  said  uneasily, 
her  thoughts  reverting  to  a  possible  accident  to 
her  brother,  who  had  gone  to  try  some  new 
horses  that  afternoon.  "  I  think  I'll  wheel  my- 
self back  to  the  house  and  find  out." 

But  at  that  moment  she  caught  sight  of  her 
sister-in-law  coming  towards  her  across  the  lawn. 
Mrs.  Graham  was  looking  cheerful  and  serene 
as  usual,  and  carried  some  sewing  in  her  hand. 

"  I  thought  I  would  come  and  join  you,"  she 
said,  as  soon  as  she  was  within  speaking  distance. 


298     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  It's  much  too  lovely  to  stay  in  doors.  Where's 
Undine?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  "  I  thought 
she  was  with  you.  She  went  in  half  an  hour 
ago,  to  read  Marjorie's  last  letter,  which  I  had 
forgotten  to  show  her,  and  hasn't  come  back 
since." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  look- 
ing a  little  annoyed,  "but  then  I  have  been  in 
the  kitchen  with  Juanita.  Undine  ought  not  to 
go  off  like  this,  and  leave  you  alone  so  long." 

"  She  never  did  such  a  thing  before,"  said  Miss 
Jessie,  anxiously.  "I  wish  you  would  go  and 
see  where  she  is,  Susie." 

"  Oh,  she  is  all  right,  I  am  sure,"  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham maintained,  but  she  turned  back  towards 
the  house,  nevertheless,  for  it  had  also  occurred 
to  her  that  it  was  unlike  Undine  to  neglect  her 
duty. 

There  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  when  Mrs. 
Graham  reached  the  house  and  although  she 
called  Undine  several  times,  she  received  no 
answer. 

"  Where  can  the  child  be?  "  she  said,  beginning 
to  feel  a  little  frightened,  and  she  hurried  to  Un- 
dine's room.  The  door  was  open,  and  her  first 
impression  was  that  the  room  was  empty.     She 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       299 

was  turning  away  again,  more  and  more  puzzled 
by  the  girl's  mysterious  disappearance,  when  her 
eye  was  caught  by  a  heap  of  something  white 
lying  on  the  floor  by  the  window,  and  in  another 
moment  she  had  hurried  forward,  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  dismay,  and  was  bending  over  Un- 
dine, who  lay,  white  and  unconscious  on  the  floor, 
with  Marjorie's  letter  clasped  convulsively  in 
her  hand. 

When  Undine  opened  her  eyes  she  was  lying 
on  her  bed,  and  Mrs.  Graham  was  bathing  her 
forehead,  while  the  faithful  Juanita  plied  a  palm- 
leaf  fan  and  held  a  bottle  of  smelling-salts  to 
her  nose.  For  a  moment  the  girl  gazed  about 
her  in  a  kind  of  dull  bewilderment;  then  a  look 
of  recollection  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  started 
up,  with  a  sharp  cry. 

"  I'm  not  dead,  I'm  not  dead !  Oh,  tell  them 
it  isn't  true!     I'm  not;  I'm  not!  " 

"  Lie  down,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Graham  in  a  tone 
of  gentle  authority.  "Of  course  you  are  not 
dead;  you  fainted,  that  is  all.  You  are  better 
now,  and  if  you  lie  still  for  a  few  minutes  you 
will  be  all  right." 

"  But  the  letter  said  I  was  dead,"  persisted 
Undine,  wildly,  and  she  fixed  her  big,  terrified 
eyes  on   Mrs.    Graham's   astonished    face.     "  It 


3oo    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

said  Barbara  Randolph  was  dead,  and  her  mother 
put  flowers  on  her  grave." 

Mrs.  Graham  was  beginning  to  be  seriously 
alarmed  for  the  girl's  reason,  but  she  made  an 
effort  to  appear  calm. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "  you 
don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  Barbara  Ran- 
dolph is  the  daughter  of  the  lady  with  whom 
Marjorie  has  been  staying;  she  died  long  ago; 
she  had  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"  But  she  didn't  die,  I  know  she  didn't! "  cried 
Undine,  sitting  up,  despite  all  Mrs.  Graham's  ef- 
forts to  keep  her  quiet.  "  I  knew  it  when  I  read 
the  letter.  For  one  minute  I  remembered  some- 
thing horrible.  I  don't  remember  it  any  more 
now,  but  I  was  so  frightened,  and  —  oh,  Mrs. 
Graham,  I  was  so  terribly  frightened !  "  And 
the  poor  child  burst  into  a  fit  of  wild,  hysterical 
sobbing,  and  clung  passionately  to  her  kind 
friend's  neck. 

(Miss  Jessie  pushed  her  wheeled-chair  out  onto 
the  porch,  and  strained  her  eyes  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  in  the  vain  hope  of  seeing  some  approach- 
ing figure.  Fortunately  the  January  evening  was 
warm,  but  even  if  it  had  been  cold  she  would 
scarcely  have  been  aware  of  the  fact.     She  was 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       301 

very  anxious,  and  this  long  suspense  of  waiting 
was  hard  to  bear.  It  was  more  than  two  hours 
since  Undine  had  regained  consciousness,  and  in 
all  that  time  the  girl  had  scarcely  uttered  an  in- 
telligible word.  She  had  passed  from  one  hys- 
terical fit  into  another,  and  Mrs.  Graham  and 
Juanita  were  at  their  wits'  end.  For  almost  the 
first  time  in  twelve  years  Miss  Jessie  realized  the 
awful  loneliness  of  their  lives.  "  Donald  must 
surely  be  back  soon/'  she  told  herself,  trying  to 
be  patient,  "  and  Jim  will  be  here  with  the  mail 
before  long.  Oh,  that  poor  child  —  what  can  it 
all  mean?" 

There  was  a  slight  sound  behind  her,  and  Mrs. 
Graham,  too,  stepped  out  on  the  porch.  She  was 
looking  pale  and  distressed. 

"How  is  she  now?"  Miss  Jessie  whispered, 
anxiously. 

"  I  think  she  has  fallen  into  a  doze ;  she  must 
be  quite  exhausted,  poor  child.  She  has  had  a 
terrible  shock  of  some  kind." 

"  Do  you  think  it  can  have  been  caused  by 
anything  in  Marjorie's  letter?  She  must  have 
been  reading  it  when  she  fainted." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  said  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, clasping  her  hands  nervously.  "  She  spoke 
of    that    Randolph    girl  —  the    little    girl    who 


302    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

was  killed  in  the  earthquake,  you  know.  Oh, 
Jessie,  you  don't  suppose  — "  Mrs.  Graham  did 
not  finish  her  sentence,  but  the  two  women 
looked  at  each  other  in  the  dusk,  and  both  their 
faces  were  pale  and  startled. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  said  Mrs.  Graham  in  a 
hurried  whisper;  "I  dare  not  leave  her  long. 
When  she  wakes  she  may  remember ;  I  think  her 
memory  is  coming  back.  I  am  afraid  you  will 
take  cold  out  here." 

"  I  am  not  cold,  but  I  will  come  in  soon.  I 
am  waiting  for  Donald  and  Jim.  I  must  warn 
them  not  to  speak  loud;  it  might  startle  her 
again." 

Mrs.  Graham  made  no  further  objection,  but 
went  back  into  the  house  and  Miss  Jessie  folded 
her  hands  and  waited. 

Five,  ten  minutes  passed,  and  then  came  the 
sound  of  distant  hoofs.  With  a  sigh  of  intense 
relief,  Miss  Jessie  sent  the  wheeled-chair  gliding 
smoothly  off  the  porch,  and  across  the  lawn.  The 
hoof -beats  drew  nearer,  and  now  she  heard 
voices.  Was  it  her  brother  or  Jim,  and  who 
were  the  others,  for  she  distinctly  heard  morSi 
than  one  voice? 

"  Is  it  you,  Donald  ?  "  she  called,  and  in  the 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       303 

still,  clear  air,  her  voice  was  audible  an  eighth  of 
a  mile  away. 

"No,  Miss,  it  ain't  Mr.  Graham,  it's  me," 
came  the  answer  in  Jim's  well-known  voice. 
"  I've  got  some  folks  with  me." 

Miss  Jessie  waited  in  silence  while  the  hoofs 
and  voices  drew  nearer.  It  was  no  uncommon 
thing  for  strangers  to  stop  at  the  ranch,  where 
they  were  always  sure  of  a  hospitable  reception 
and  a  night's  lodging.  She  was  glad  Jim  was 
not  alone.  Perhaps  the  visitors,  whoever  they 
were,  might  be  able  to  help,  but  how  she  could 
not  imagine.  It  was  nearly  dark,  and  the  first 
few  stars  were  beginning  to  glimmer  in  the  even- 
ing sky. 

The  horses  were  very  near  now,  and  she  could 
distinguish  three  figures,  one  was  Jim  Hatha- 
way, the  other  two  were  strangers. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame."  It  was  the 
elder  of  the  two  strangers  who  spoke;  he  had 
sprung  from  his  horse,  and  taken  off  his  hat. 
Even  in  the  dim  light  Miss  Jessie  could  see  that 
he  was  a  gentleman.  His  companion  she  noticed 
was  much  younger,  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  in- 
deed, and  he,  too,  was  regarding  her  with  eager, 
questioning  eyes. 


304    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  I  must  introduce  myself,"  the  gentleman 
went  on,  courteously.  "  I  think  you  may  have 
heard  Marjorie  speak  of  me.  I  am  Dr.  Ran- 
dolph, and  this  is  my  nephew  Beverly." 

Miss  Jessie  gave  a  little  joyful  cry,  and  held 
out  both  hands. 

"Is  it  about  Undine?"  she  whispered  breath- 
lessly. "  Have  you  come  for  her,  and  is  it  really 
true  that  the  child  is  your  niece?  " 

It  was  some  time  before  Undine  awoke  from 
the  heavy  sleep  of  exhaustion  into  which  she  had 
fallen.  She  opened  her  eyes,  gazed  about  her 
vaguely,  and  murmured,  "  Mother !  I  want 
Mother." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  softly 
kissing  the  girl's  hot  forehead.  "  Your  mother 
isn't  here,  but  she  is  safe  and  well,  and  you  shall 
go  to  her  very  soon." 

Undine  smiled  faintly,  and  then  a  troubled 
look  came  into  her  face. 

"  I  forgot  her,"  she  said,  dreamily,  "  I  forgot 
my  mother  for  a  long  time,  but  I  remember  now, 
and  I  want  her  —  oh,  I  want  her."  And  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  in  helpless  longing. 

Then  Mrs.  Graham  moved  aside,  and  some  one 
else  bent  over  her. 


UNDINE  REMEMBERS       305 

"  Babs,"  said  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  "  Babs 
darling,  don't  you  know  me?     It's  Beverly." 

With  a  great  cry  of  joy  Undine  started  up,  and 
in  another  second  she  was  clinging  convulsively 
round  her  brother's  neck. 

"Beverly,"  she  sobbed,  "oh,  Beverly,  I  re- 
member; I  remember  everything.  It's  all  come 
back;  poor  Aunt  Helen,  that  dreadful,  dreadful 
time!  You  thought  I  was  dead,  and  you  and 
Mother  put  flowers  on  my  grave;  but  I  wasn't 
dead,  I  had  only  forgotten.  Hold  me,  Beverly, 
hold  me  tight ;  I'm  so  afraid  I'm  going  to  forget 
again." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

UNDINE  TELLS    HER   STORY 

But  Undine  did  not  forget  again,  although 
it  was  some  time  before  she  was  able  to  give  any 
coherent  account  of  what  she  could  remember. 
Indeed,  she  was  in  such  a  feverish,  hysterical 
condition,  that  Dr.  Randolph  would  not  allow  any 
attempt  at  questioning  her  that  night. 

"  She  has  had  a  terrible  shock,  poor  child," 
he  said  to  Mrs.  Graham.  "  The  reading  of  that 
letter  must  have  brought  everything  back  with 
a  rush  and  the  knowledge  that  she  had  been 
mourned  as  dead  for  nearly  three  years  was  al- 
most more  than  she  could  bear.  But  she  is 
young  and  strong,  and  a  good  night's  sleep  will 
do  wonders  for  her.  When  I  think  of  what  we 
owe  to  you  and  your — "  The  doctor's  voice 
broke  suddenly,  and  he  impulsively  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  I  think  our  obligations  are  mutual,"  said 
Mrs.  Graham,  smiling,  though  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "  According  to  Marjorie's  last  let- 
306 


UNDINE  TELLS  HER  STORY     307 

ter,  you  and  Mrs.  Randolph  have  been  making 
our  little  girl  very  happy,  while  your  niece  has 
been  a  great  comfort  to  us.  It  is  all  so  strange 
and  wonderful  that  I  can  scarcely  realize  yet  that 
it  isn't  a  dream." 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  Undine  cling  to  her 
brother;  she  could  not  bear  to  have  him  out  of 
her  sight  for  a  moment,  and  Beverly  himself, 
almost  stunned  by  the  great  shock  of  the  dis- 
covery that  Undine  and  Barbara  were  really  one 
and  the  same,  coming  at  the  end  of  four  days  of 
almost  unendurable  suspense,  could  do  little  be- 
yond hovering  over  his  sister,  in  joy  and  thank- 
fulness too  deep  for  words. 

"  Does  Mother  know,  Beverly?  "  Undine  whis- 
pered, late  that  evening,  when  the  two  were  alone 
together. 

"  No,  Babs,  she  doesn't  know  yet,  but  we  are 
going  to  take  you  home  just  as  soon  as  we  can. 
We  couldn't  let  Mother  even  suspect  until  we 
were  sure  ourselves.  Marjorie  was  certain  she 
recognized  your  photograph,  but  Uncle  George 
and  I  couldn't  believe  it  was  true;  it  seemed  so 
impossible." 

"  Poor,  poor  Mother,"  sighed  Undine;  "oh, 
Beverly,  how  unhappy  she  must  have  been ! " 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,  Babs ;  you  know  Uncle 


3o8     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

George  doesn't  want  you  to  talk.  You  must  try 
to  go  to  sleep,  so  as  to  be  able  to  start  for  home 
as  soon  as  possible." 

"  I'm  afraid  to  go  to  sleep,"  protested  Undine, 
feverishly.  "  Perhaps  when  I  wake  I  shall  have 
forgotten  everything  again.  Oh,  Beverly,  don't 
let  me  forget  again." 

"  Of  course  we  won't  let  you,"  said  Beverly, 
putting  a  strong  arm  around  her,  protectingly. 
"  You  are  quite  safe  now,  you  know,  Babs  dar- 
ling, Uncle  George  and  I  are  here,  and  we're 
going  to  take  you  home  to  Mother." 

Undine  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  as  she 
nestled  in  her  brother's  arms,  and  when  she  fell 
asleep  at  last  it  was  with  Beverly's  hand  clasped 
fast  in  hers. 

But  after  a  long  night's  sleep,  and  a  joyful 
waking,  to  find  that  she  had  not  forgotten  again, 
Undine  was  quite  a  different  creature,  and  dur- 
ing the  morning  that  followed  she  was  able  to 
give  her  uncle  and  brother  a  fairly  clear  account 
of  her  adventures. 

"  I  remember  it  all  quite  well  now,"  she  said. 
"  Aunt  Helen  was  ill  that  night,  and  she  said  she 
would  have  the  maid  sleep  in  her  room,  in  case 
she  might  need  something.  I  slept  in  the  maid's 
room,  which  was  just  across  the  hall.     I  was 


UNDINE  TELLS  HER  STORY     309 

very  tired,  and  I  think  I  must  have  gone  to  sleep 
as  soon  as  I  was  in  bed,  for  I  don't  remember 
anything  until  I  woke  hearing  a  terrible  noise. 
The  whole  hotel  seemed  to  be  rocking,  and  I  saw 
some  of  the  things  on  the  bureau  fall  over,  and 
a  picture  came  down  off  the  wall.  I  think  I  was 
too  frightened  to  move,  for  I  lay  quite  still, 
thinking  every  minute  that  Aunt  Helen  would 
come  and  tell  me  what  had  happened.  In  a  few 
moments  the  shaking  stopped  and  then  I  heard 
people  screaming  and  running  about  in  the  halls. 

"  Aunt  Helen  didn't  come,  or  the  maid  either, 
and  at  last  I  got  up,  and  went  to  look  for  them. 
I  was  in  my  nightgown  and  bare  feet,  but  I  was 
too  frightened  to  stop  to  put  any  clothes  on.  I 
ran  out  into  the  hall,  intending  to  go  to  Aunt 
Helen's  room,  but  something  frightful  had  hap- 
pened ;  there  wasn't  any  room,  only  a  great  pile 
of  bricks  and  mortar,  and  I  heard  people  say 
one  of  the  chimneys  had  fallen  in.  Oh,  it  was 
terrible  —  I  can't  talk  about  it !  "  And  the  poor 
child  began  to  shiver  convulsively. 

"  Never  mind  about  that  part  of  the  story, 
dear,"  Dr.  Randolph  said,  soothingly,  while 
Beverly  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"  I  called  and  called  to  Aunt  Helen,"  Undine 
went  on  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 


"3io     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  but  nobody  answered,  and  then  the  house  be- 
gan to  shake  again  and  people  screamed  that  the 
walls  were  falling. 

"  The  next  thing  I  remember  is  being  out  in 
the  street.  I  don't  know  how  I  got  there,  but 
I  was  running  along  in  my  bare  feet,  in  the  midst 
of  a  great  crowd.  I  don't  know  how  far  I  ran 
or  where  I  went.  I  think  I  must  have  been 
crazed  with  fright.  I  tried  to  speak  to  people, 
but  nobody  took  any  notice  of  me.  I  heard  them 
saying  there  had  been  a  terrible  earthquake,  and 
that  the  whole  city  had  been  destroyed.  At  last 
I  got  very  tired,  and  I  think  I  must  have  been 
faint  too,  for  everything  grew  black,  and  I  was 
so  cold.  I  remember  going  inside  a  doorway, 
and  thinking  I  would  rest  there  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then  the  stone  must  have  fallen  on  my 
head,  for  I  don't  remember  anything  more  till  T 
woke  up  in  the  hospital,  and  didn't  even  know 
my  name." 

"  Of  course  it  must  have  been  the  poor  maid 
who  was  killed,"  said  Beverly.  "  We  never 
dreamed  of  that,  because  we  felt  so  sure  you  and 
Aunt  Helen  had  roomed  together.  But  Babs 
dear,  did  you  never  remember  anything  at  all 
—  not  even  the  least  little  thing?  " 

Undine  shook  her  head. 


UNDINE  TELLS  HER  STORY     311 

"  I  used  to  have  little  gleams  of  memory  some- 
times," she  said,  "  but  they  were  gone  again  in 
a  minute.  I  had  one  the  first  time  I  heard  Jim 
sing  '  Mandalay,'  and  for  one  second  I  think  I 
almost  remembered  you,  Beverly.  Another  time 
I  almost  remembered  was  when  Mrs.  Graham 
was  reading  a  letter  from  Marjorie,  in  which  she 
mentioned  your  name  for  the  first  time.  I  kept 
saying  '  Randolph,  Randolph '  over  and  over  to 
myself  for  a  long  time,  but  after  the  first  minute 
the  words  didn't  seem  to  mean  anything  to  me. 
It  wasn't  till  yesterday  when  I  read  that  letter, 
and  saw  all  your  names  together  —  Mother's  and 
yours,  and  Uncle  George's  and  then  that  part 
about  going  to  Barbara's  grave  —  that  it  all 
came  back  with  a  rush,  and  I  was  so  frightened 
that  I  fainted." 

Later  in  the  day  Undine  —  or  Barbara,  as  I 
suppose  we  must  call  her  now  —  had  a  long  talk 
with  her  uncle.  Dr.  Randolph  had  insisted  on 
Beverly's  going  out  for  a  walk.  The  boy  was 
utterly  worn  out  from  excitement  and  suspense, 
and  his  uncle  feared  he  would  be  really  ill  if 
precautions  were  not  taken.  So  he  was  sent  off 
for  a  long  tramp  over  the  ranch  with  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, and  the  doctor  sat  down  by  his  little  niece's 
bedside,  and  tried  to  draw  her  thoughts  away 


3i2     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

from  painful  memories,  by  talking  of  Marjorie, 
and  of  her  own  life  on  the  ranch. 

"  They  have  all  been  so  good  to  me  here,  Uncle 
George,"  Barbara  said,  the  grateful  tears  start- 
ing to  her  eyes.  "If  you  could  have  seen  me 
when  I  first  came!  I  am  sure  I  looked  like  a 
tramp,  and  I  was  so  miserable  I  didn't  care  much 
what  became  of  me.  I  don't  think  many  people 
would  have  believed  my  crazy  story,  but  they 
took  me  right  in  without  a  word,  and  have 
treated  me  just  as  if  I  belonged  to  them  ever 
since.  Aren't  Mrs.  Graham  and  Miss  Jessie 
lovely?" 

"  They  are  indeed,"  said  the  doctor,  heartily. 
"  We  owe  them  a  debt  of  gratitude  that  can  never 
be  repaid.  Miss  Graham  has  one  of  the  sweetest 
faces  I  have  ever  seen.  Has  she  been  a  cripple 
all  her  life?" 

Barbara  caught  her  breath  as  a  sudden  recol- 
lection flashed  into  her  mind. 

"Uncle  George,"  she  cried  excitedly,  "aren't 
you  a  great  surgeon  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  surgeon  certainly,"  said  her  uncle, 
smiling,  "  but  I  don't  know  just  what  you  would 
call  a  great  one;  why  do  you  want  to  know?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Barbara,  clasping  her  hands, 
and    regarding   the    doctor   with   shining   eyes, 


UNDINE  TELLS  HER  STORY     313 

"now  Marjorie  can  have  her  wish  —  the  thing 
she  wants  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world, 
and  that  she  and  I  have  been  praying  for  all 
winter." 

And  in  a  few  rapid  words  she  told  the  story  of 
Miss  Graham's  accident,  and  of  Marjorie's  hopes. 

Dr.  Randolph  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  much 
interested,  and  when  Beverly  returned  from  his 
walk,  he  left  the  brother  and  sister  together,  and 
went  in  quest  of  Mrs.  Graham,  with  whom  he 
had  a  long  talk  Then  Miss  Jessie  was  taken 
into  their  confidence,  and  all  through  the  long 
afternoon  Barbara  and  Beverly  waited  in  eager 
anxiety  for  their  uncle's  return. 

Mr.  Graham  was  obliged  to  ride  some  distance 
to  another  ranch  that  afternoon,  in  order  to  see 
a  man  on  business,  and  it  was  late  in  the  evening 
when  he  returned,  and  found  his  old  classmate 
waiting  for  him  on  the  porch. 

"Well,  and  how  are  things  going?"  he  in- 
quired cheerfully,  when  Jim  had  taken  away  his 
horse.     "  I  trust  our  little  friend  is  better." 

"  She  is  much  better,  thank  you,"  Dr.  Ran- 
dolph answered.  "  She  is  fast  recovering  from 
the  shock,  and  I  hope  we  may  be  able  to  start  for 
home  by  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Her  mother 
must  be  told  as  soon  as  possible,  and  Barbara  her- 


3H    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

self  can  scarcely  wait  to  get  home.  I  am  going 
to  make  arrangements  to  leave  on  the  first  avail- 
able train  for  the  East  and  —  Graham,  I  want 
to  ask  you  a  favor." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  anything  in 
my  power/'  Mr.  Graham  said,  smiling;  "what 
is  it?" 

"  I  want  you  to  let  me  take  your  wife  and 
sister  back  to  New  York  with  us." 

"  My  wife  and  sister!  "  repeated  Mr.  Graham 
in  amazement.  "  Why,  my  dear  boy,  my  poor 
sister  hasn't  left  her  wheeled-chair  for  eight 
years.  I  am  sure  that  she  could  not  stand  such 
a  journey." 

"  I  think  she  could,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly. 
"  I  should  take  a  compartment  for  her,  of  course, 
and  she  could  lie  down  during  the  whole  trip. 
As  for  the  drive  to  the  station,  I  think  that  could 
also  be  managed  without  much  discomfort.  She 
tells  me  she  often  takes  fairly  long  drives  with 
you  and  your  wife.  Barbara  is  still  very  much 
shaken,  and  will  need  a  woman's  care  on  the 
journey.  Your  wife  can  be  of  great  assistance 
to  us,  and  as  to  your  sister  —  well,  the  fact  is, 
Graham,  I  made  an  examination  this  afternoon, 
with  her  and  Mrs.  Graham's  consent,  and  I  see 
no  reason  why  an  operation  cannot  be  performed. 


UNDINE  TELLS  HER  STORY     315 

I  can't  promise  an  absolute  cure,  but  I  have 
strong  hopes." 

Mr.  Graham  did  not  speak,  but  he  grasped 
his  old  friend's  hand  in  gratitude  too  deep  for 
words,  and  the  doctor  went  away  well  satisfied, 
to  carry  the  good  news  to  his  niece  and  nephew. 

"Oh,  how  happy  Marjorie  will  be!"  cried 
Barbara,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  When  she 
wrote  me  that  she  had  met  a  great  surgeon,  but 
would  never  have  the  courage  to  speak  to  him 
about  her  aunt,  how  little  either  of  us  dreamed  — 
oh,  what  a  wonderful,  beautiful  thing  it  all  is! 
To  think  that  in  five  days  I  shall  be  with  Mother. 
You  don't  think  the  shock  will  make  her  ill,  do 
you,  Uncle  George  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,  dear,  but  we  must  be  very  care- 
ful how  the  news  is  broken  to  her.  Now  I  want 
Beverly  to  go  to  bed,  and  you  must  try  to  sleep, 
too,  Barbara,  for  you  will  need  all  your  strength 
for  the  journey,  and  the  meeting  with  your 
mother." 

But  it  was  a  long  time  before  Barbara  fell 
asleep  that  night.  Old  memories  were  trooping 
back  thick  and  fast,  and  there  was  so  much  that 
was  happy  as  well  as  sad  to  remember.  She 
breathed  more  than  one  little  prayer  of  thankful- 
ness   to   the   dear   Heavenly   Father,   who   had 


316    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

watched  over  her  through  all  her  trials  and 
dangers,  and  brought  her  back  at  last  to  home 
and  friends.  And  when  sleep  came  at  last,  it 
was  a  peaceful,  refreshing  sleep,  untroubled  by 
feverish  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BREAKING  THE  NEWS 

"Do  sit  down,  Marjorie;  you  haven't  been 
still  for  five  minutes  since  luncheon."  Elsie 
spoke  in  a  tone  of  weary  exasperation,  as  she 
laid  down  the  book  .she  had  been  trying  to  read, 
and  regarded  her  cousin's  flushed  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes,  with  a  half  amused,  half  annoyed 
expression. 

Marjorie  laughed  nervously. 

"  I'm  sorry  I've  been  so  restless,"  she  said, 
"  but  how  can  I  help  it.  Just  think,  they'll  be 
here  this  very  day,  and  Mrs.  Randolph  doesn't 
know  a  single  thing  yet." 

"Of  course  I  know  it's  th'e  most  exciting 
thing  that  ever  happened,"  Elsie  admitted,  with 
resignation,  "  but  one  can't  help  getting  tired 
even  of  exciting  things  when  one  has  heard  of 
nothing  else  for  a  whole  week.  It  will  be  a  week 
to-morrow  since  you  got  that  telegram,  and  I 
don't  believe  you've  thought  of  another  thing 
since." 

317 


318     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  I  don't  believe  I  have,"  agreed  Marjorie, 
"  but  then  how  could  I  ?  Oh,  Elsie,  I'm  so 
happy  when  I  think  it  has  all  come  about  through 
my  recognizing  that  photograph!  Just  suppose 
Beverly  and  I  hadn't  gone  to  Mammy's  cabin 
that  afternoon.  I  might  never  have  seen  a  pic- 
ture of  Barbara,  and  the  Randolphs  might  never 
have  known." 

"  I  wonder  how  they  are  going  to  break  the 
news  to  Mrs.  Randolph,"  remarked  Elsie,  with- 
out heeding  her  cousin's  last  observation.  "  I 
should  think  it  would  be  dreadfully  dangerous; 
the  shock  might  kill  her." 

Marjorie's  bright  face  clouded. 

"  I  can't  help  worrying  about  it,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  am  sure  Dr.  Randolph  will  find  a  way  of 
doing  it.  It's  wonderful  to  see  her  so  calm,  just 
doing  every-day  things,  and  talking  as  if  noth- 
ing unusual  were  happening,  when  we  are  all  so 
excited  and  nervous." 

"  I  really  don't  see  how  you  managed  to  keep 
her  from  suspecting  when  you  were  on  the  way 
home,"  said  Elsie ;  "  I'm  afraid  I  should  have  let 
out  something  without  intending  to." 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,"  said  Marjorie,  gravely. 
"  Think  how  terrible  it  would  have  been  if  Mrs. 
Randolph  had  hoped  and  then  been  disappointed. 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS      319 

I  was  sure  myself,  but  neither  Dr.  Randolph  nor 
Beverly  believed  it  could  be  true.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  last  evening  in  Virginia.  Beverly  and 
I  were  both  almost  ill  from  excitement,  and  yet 
we  had  to  act  just  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  hap- 
pened. Fortunately  the  doctor  and  Beverly  were 
to  start  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  so  we  all 
went  to  bed  early.  I  don't  believe  any  of  us  slept 
a  wink;  I  know  I  didn't.  The  day  on  the  train 
wasn't  quite  so  bad,  because  Mrs.  Patterson  was 
with  us,  and  she  hadn't  been  told  anything,  and 
could  be  natural  without  trying.  I  pretended  to 
be  very  much  interested  in  a  book,  so  as  not  to 
have  to  talk  much,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  it 
was  about.  And  all  the  time  Mrs.  Randolph  was 
just  as  sweet  and  calm  as  possible,  and  worried 
about  me  because  my  hands  were  cold,  and  I 
couldn't  eat." 

"  I  think  you  were  very  plucky,"  said  Elsie. 

The  bright  color  rushed  into  Marjorie's  cheeks ; 
this  was  the  first  compliment  Elsie  had  ever  paid 
her. 

"I  wasn't  at  all  plucky,"  she  said,  modestly; 
"  any  one  else  would  have  done  the  same  thing, 
I'm  glad  you  think  I  was,  though,  for  I  do  want 
you  to  like  me." 

"  Of  course  I  like  you,"  said  Elsie,  reddening 


32o    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

in  her  turn.  "  There's  the  door-bell ;  I  wonder  if 
it's  Mamma." 

"  Perhaps  it's  a  letter,"  cried  Marjorie,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet ;  "  I  ought  to  have  a  letter  from 
home  to-day.  I  haven't  heard  a  word  since  that 
little  note  from  Aunt  Jessie  the  morning  after 
Barbara  was  found." 

But  it  was  not  a  letter.  Neither  was  it  Mrs. 
Carleton,  who  had  gone  driving  with  a  friend. 
In  a  moment  the  faithful  Hortense  appeared  with 
a  message. 

"  Madame  Randolph  has  sent  to  inquire  if 
Mademoiselle  Marjorie  will  come  to  her  apart- 
ment for  a  short  time.  Her  friend  has  been 
obliged  to  go  out,  and  she  is  alone." 

Marjorie  clasped  her  hands  in  dismay,  and 
turned  a  little  pale. 

"  Send  word  you're  very  busy,  and  can't  pos- 
sibly come,"  suggested  Elsie.  But  Marjorie 
shook  her  head. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
gasp.  "  Mrs.  Randolph  has  been  so  good  to  me; 
she  would  think  it  so  strange  if  I  didn't  come 
when  she  sent  for  me.  Say  I  will  be  there  in  a 
few  minutes,  Hortense." 

"You  really  are  a  wonder,  Marjorie,"  re- 
marked  Elsie,   with  involuntary  admiration,   as 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS      321 

Hortense  left  the  room  with  the  message.  "  I'm 
sure  I  should  never  be  able  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  you  would,"  said  Marjorie,  smiling 
and  without  another  word  she  followed  Hortense 
out  of  the  room. 

Marjorie's  heart  was  beating  very  fast  when 
she  rang  Mrs.  Randolph's  bell  five  minutes  later, 
but  when  that  lady  herself  opened  the  door,  and 
greeted  her  guest  with  her  usual  serene  cheerful- 
ness, the  girl  pulled  herself  together  with  a 
mighty  effort,  and  her  friend  noticed  nothing  un- 
usual in  her  manner,  except  that  her  cheeks  were 
flushed  and  her  eyes  shining. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  could  come  this  afternoon,,, 
Mrs.  Randolph  said,  leading  the  way  to  the  sit- 
ting-room. "  I  haven't  seen  you  for  days,  and 
was  beginning  to  feel  quite  neglected."  She 
spoke  playfully,  but  Marjorie  felt  the  gentle  re- 
proach in  her  tone,  and  her  heart  beat  faster  than 
ever. 

"  Indeed  I  didn't  mean  to  neglect  you,"  she 
said,  eagerly,  "  but  —  but  you  see  I  have  had  a 
good  deal  to  do  since  I  came  home;  school  began 
on  Monday." 

"  I  understand,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph, 
smiling,  "  and  I  am  not  blaming  you  in  the  least, 
but  I  have  missed  you  very  much." 


322     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  You  have  had  Mrs,  Patterson,"  said  Mar- 
jorie,  as  she  took  the  seat  her  friend  indicated  be- 
side her  on  the  sofa. 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  she  has  been  a  great  comfort, 
for  I  have  missed  Beverly  terribly.  He  and  the 
doctor  will  be  at  home  this  afternoon,  you  know.'' 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie;  "  Mrs.  Patterson  told 
us  at  luncheon.  She  said  you  had  a  headache ;  I 
hope  it's  better." 

"  Much  better,  thank  you,  dear.  I  didn't  come 
down  to  luncheon  because  I  wanted  to  be  quite 
bright  and  well  this  evening  when  Beverly  is 
here.  This  is  always  a  rather  sad  day  for  me ;  it 
is  my  little  Barbara's  birthday." 

Marjorie's  heart  gave  one  big  jump,  and  began 
throbbing  so  fast  she  could  scarcely  breathe. 
She  could  not  have  spoken  had  her  life  depended 
on  it,  but  fortunately  Mrs.  Randolph  did  not  ap- 
pear to  expect  an  answer. 

"  My  little  girl  would  have  been  fifteen  to- 
day," she  said,  sadly.  "  It  seems  hard  to  realize; 
she  was  such  a  child  when  she  went  away.  I 
have  missed  Beverly  so  much  to-day;  he  and  I 
always  talk  of  Barbara  on  her  birthday." 

"  Would  you  like  to  talk  to  me  about  her,  Mrs. 
Randolph?"  said  Marjorie,  in  a  voice  that  was 
scarcely  above  a  whisper. 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS      323 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much.  Indeed,  that  is 
why  I  sent  for  you.  Mrs.  Patterson  has  gone 
out.  I  offered  to  go  with  her,  but  she  said  she 
had  some  important  business  to  attend  to,  and 
would  rather  go  alone.  I  am  afraid  something 
is  troubling  her,  and  she  doesn't  want  to  worry 
me  about  it." 

Marjorie,  who  knew  that  Mrs.  Patterson  had 
gone  to  the  station  to  meet  the  travelers,  in  an- 
swer to  an  urgent  telegram  from  Dr.  Randolph, 
said  nothing.  Mrs.  Patterson,  being  a  nervous, 
excitable  little  woman,  had  been  purposely  kept 
in  ignorance  of  the  real  reason  of  her  cousins' 
Western  trip,  and  it  was  in  order  to  break  the 
news  to  her  that  the  doctor  had  wired  her  to  meet 
him  at  the  station,  and  to  say  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject of  her  errand  to  Mrs.  Randolph.  Conse- 
quently, the  poor  little  lady  had  been  filled  by  ap- 
prehensions of  something  dreadful  having  hap- 
pened to  one  or  both  of  the  travelers,  and  had 
departed  in  a  state  of  perturbation  well  calculated 
to  arouse  Mrs.  Randolph's  suspicions  that  some- 
thing was  troubling  her. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Mrs. 
Randolph  went  on. 

"  I  never  talk  of  my  little  girl  to  strangers  — 
it  is  all  too  sacred  for  that  —  but  you  are  not  a 


324    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

stranger  any  more.  I  have  loved  you  dearly  ever 
since  we  stood  together  at  my  Barbara's  grave, 
and  you  showed  me  by  your  silent  sympathy  how 
well  you  understood." 

Marjorie  could  not  speak,  but  she  took  her 
friend's  hand,  and  stroked  it  softly,  while  Mrs. 
Randolph  went  on,  calmly,  though  with  a  quiver 
in  her  voice : 

"  I  used  to  try  to  make  the  children's  birthdays 
as  happy  as  possible;  I  thought  they  would  be 
pleasant  memories  for  them  when  they  were 
older.  Even  the  year  after  my  husband  died, 
when  my  heart  was  very  sad,  I  wanted  them  to 
have  a  merry  time.  Little  children's  lives  should 
never  be  saddened.  I  think  you  would  have 
loved  my  little  girl,  Marjorie;  she  was  very 
sweet." 

"  I  know  I  should,"  said  Marjorie,  with  a  sob, 
that  was  half  hysterical. 

"  I  am  afraid  she  was  a  sad  rogue  sometimes," 
said  Mrs.  Randolph,  smiling ;  "  Beverly  and  I 
often  laugh  even  now  over  the  memory  of  some 
of  her  pranks.  I  want  him  to  remember  all  the 
bright,  pleasant  things,  and  not  dwell  too  much 
on  the  sadness." 

"  Mammy  told  me  about  some  of  Barbara's 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS      325 

pranks,"   said  Marjorie,   "  she   showed  me  her 
photograph,  too." 

Mrs.  Randolph  unfastened  a  small  gold  locket 
from  a  chain  she  always  wore  about  her  neck, 
and  opened  it.  Inside  was  the  miniature  of  a 
merry-faced  girl  of  twelve  —  the  same  face  that 
had  looked  at  Marjorie  from  the  photograph  in 
Mammy's  cabin. 

"  That  was  taken  only  a  few  weeks  before  my 
little  girl  went  away,"  she  said.  "  She  was  just 
twelve  then.  I  suppose  she  would  look  older 
now,  but  I  can  never  think  of  Babs  as  growing 
up." 

Then  Marjorie  had  an  inspiration.  How  it 
came  she  never  knew,  but  she  had  yielded  to  it  be- 
fore giving  herself  time  to  think. 

"That  picture  reminds  me  of  some  one  I 
know,"  she  said,  and  the  moment  the  words  were 
out  she  would  have  given  everything  she  pos- 
sessed to  have  left  them  unsaid. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  Mrs.  Randolph  asked,  her  eyes 
still  resting  lovingly  on  the  face  of  the  miniature. 
"  A  girl  who  has  been  at  my  home  since  last 
summer,"  said  Marjorie,  who  was  beginning  to 
feel  cold  and  sick  with  excitement  and  appre- 
hension, but  was  determined  to  go  on  now  that 


326    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

she  had  begun.  "  She  came  to  the  ranch  one 
day  all  by  herself.  She  had  walked  all  the  way 
from  the  railroad.  It  was  a  very  strange  case; 
she  had  had  an  accident,  and  forgotten  every- 
thing about  herself,  even  her  own  name." 

"Forgotten  her  name!"  said  Mrs.  Randolph, 
incredulously.  "  What  a  curious  thing  —  are 
you  sure  her  story  was  true  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  sure.  She  was  such  a  dear 
girl,  we  couldn't  doubt  her.  Besides  Father 
wrote  to  the  people  she  had  lived  with  since  her 
accident,  and  they  said  everything  Undine  had 
told  us  was  true.  We  called  her  Undine  because 
it  was  pretty,  and  we  didn't  know  her  real  name.'* 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph,  closing  the 
miniature  as  she  spoke.  "  Has  she  never  re- 
membered anything  about  herself  since  ?  " 

"  She  hadn't  a  week  ago,"  said  Marjorie,  won- 
dering how  her  shaking  lips  formed  the  words, 
"  but  perhaps  she  may  some  time.  Oh,  Mrs. 
Randolph,  suppose  she  should  remember,  and  it 
should  turn  out  that  she  had  relatives  —  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  —  and  perhaps  a  mother,  who 
had  been  mourning  her  as  dead !  Can  you  think 
how  her  mother  would  feel?  Can  you  even  im- 
agine it,  Mrs.  Randolph?" 

"  I  think  such  joy  would  be  more  than  any 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS      327 

mother  could  bear,"  said  Mrs.  Randolph,  softly. 
"  But  such  strange,  romantic  things  don't  often 
happen  in  this  world,  Marjorie  dear.  The  poor 
child's  mother  is  probably  dead,  or  she  would 
have  found  her  long  ago.  How  did  the  accident 
happen?  " 

Marjorie  gave  a  great  gasp. 

"  We  —  we  are  not  quite  sure,"  she  said. 
"  Undine  says  the  people  at  the  hospital  told  her 
a  stone  must  have  fallen  on  her  head.  She  was 
found  in  San  Francisco  under  some  ruins,  after 
—  after  the  earthquake." 

"After  the  earthquake,"  repeated  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph in  a  strange,  startled  tone,  and  she  grew 
suddenly  pale.  "  Oh,  poor,  poor  child !  At  least 
my  little  Barbara  was  spared  those  horrors.  Why 
have  you  never  told  me  about  this  girl  before, 
Marjorie?  " 

"  Because  Beverly  said  it  made  you  sad  to  have 
any  one  speak  of  the  earthquake,  and  I  couldn't 
have  told  Undine's  story  without  mentioning  it. 
It  was  dreadful,  of  course,  but  she  was  saved. 
Think  of  it,  Mrs.  Randolph,  she  was  saved,  and 
perhaps  some  time — "  poor  Marjorie's  over- 
strained nerves  gave  way,  and  she  burst  into 
tears. 

Mrs.  Randolph  had  grown  very  white ;  she  was 


328     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

trembling,  too,  but  she  laid  a  firm  hand  on  the 
girl's  shoulder. 

"  Marjorie,"  she  cried  sharply,  "  what  does  this 
mean  ?  Why  are  you  telling  me  all  this  ?  Some- 
thing has  happened,  I  know  it  has  —  oh,  Mar- 
jorie, for  God's  sake  tell  me  what  it  is!  My  lit- 
tle girl  is  dead;  they  brought  her  home  to  me, 
though  they  would  not  let  me  see  her  dear  face. 
Marjorie,  why  do  you  cry  so?  You  must  tell  ml 
at  once,  do  you  hear?     I  say  at  once." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Randolph,  darling  Mrs.  Randolph, 
it  isn't  anything  sad,  indeed  it  isn't,"  sobbed  Mar- 
jorie, with  her  arms  about  her  friend's  neck. 
"It's  something  beautiful;  more  beautiful  and 
wonderful  than  you  can  ever  imagine.  I  can't  say 
any  more,  but  Beverly  will  be  here  very  soon,  and 
he  will  tell  you.  Try  to  think  of  the  very  great- 
est joy  that  could  possibly  come  to  any  one, 
and  perhaps  you  will  begin  to  have  an  idea  what 
it  is." 

Marjorie  paused,  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
some  one  had  entered  the  room.  In  their  excite- 
ment neither  she  nor  Mrs.  Randolph  had  noticed 
the  opening  of  the  door,  or  the  sound  of  an  ap- 
proaching footstep.  But  now  as  she  lifted  her 
face  from  her  friend's  shoulder,  Marjorie  saw 
two  figures  standing  on  the  threshold ;  they  were 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS      329 

Dr.  Randolph  and  Beverly.  At  the  same  moment 
Mrs.  Randolph  also  recognized  them,  and  held 
out  her  arms  to  her  son. 

"  Beverly,''  she  cried,  "  tell  me  what  it  is ! 
You  know,  I  see  it  in  your  face.  Oh,  Beverly, 
my  darling,  it  isn't  —  it  can't  be  news  of  Bar- 
bara?" 

"  Yes,  Mother,  it  is !  "  cried  the  boy,  gathering 
her  in  his  strong  arms.  "  Can  you  bear  a  great 
shock,  Mother  —  a  great  joyful  shock?  — because 
if  you  can,  Uncle  George  and  I  have  something 
to  tell  you." 

Marjorie  waited  for  no  more;  such  scenes  were 
not  for  other  eyes  to  see  or  other  ears  to  hear. 
With  a  bound,  she  was  out  of  the  room,  and  fly- 
ing across  the  corridor.  In  her  flight  she  darted 
by  two  other  figures  without  even  seeing  them ;  a 
trembling,  white-faced  girl  clinging  nervously  to 
an  older  woman,  whose  face  was  scarcely  less 
white  than  her  own.  She  had  but  one  thought: 
to  reach  her  room  before  the  burst  of  hysterical 
excitement  completely  overpowered  her.  A  fran- 
tic ring  at  the  Carletons'  bell,  and  then  the  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  she  was  clinging  to  some 
one  —  presumably  Hortense  —  crying  and  laugh- 
ing both  together. 

"  Oh,  Hortense,  Hortense,"  she  wailed,  "  I've 


330    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

told  her,  and  they've  come !  You  don't  think  the 
shock  will  kill  her,  do  you?  " 

But  it  was  not  Hortense  who  answered,  or 
who  held  the  hysterical  child  in  loving,  motherly 
arms, 

"  Mar j one,  my  dear  little  Marjorie,  don't 
tremble  so!  Everything  will  be  all  right,  my 
darling,  I  know  it  will,  and  here  are  Aunt  Jessie 
and  I  come  all  the  way  from  Arizona  to  give  you 
a  big  surprise." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MARJORIE  HAS  HER  WISH 

Marjorie  declared  afterwards  that  she  was 
sure  that  was  the  happiest  moment  of  her  life, 
but  at  the  time  the  joyful  surprise,  coming  so 
soon  after  the  nervous  strain  of  the  past  hour, 
proved  almost  too  much  for  her,  and  she  could 
do  nothing  for  some  time  but  hold  her  mother 
tight,  and  cry  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  It's  the  one  thing  I've  been  wishing  for  every 
day,  and  praying  for  every  night  since  I  came  to 
New  York,"  Marjorie  said  to  her  aunt,  late  that 
evening,  when  Miss  Graham  was  in  bed,  and  her 
niece  was  sitting  beside  her,  holding  her  hand. 
"  But  I  never  dared  hope  it  would  really  happen, 
even  when  I  knew  Dr.  Randolph  had  gone  to  Ari- 
zona. We  were  all  so  excited  about  Barbara;  it 
didn't  seem  as  if  he  or  Beverly  would  be  able  to 
think  of  anything  else." 

"  It  was  all  Undine's  doing,"  said  Miss  Jessie, 
smiling.  She  was  looking  pale  and  tired,  but 
33i 


332    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

very  happy  and  Marjorie  gazed  at  her  aunt,  with 
shining  eyes. 

"  You  know  it  was  Undine  who  told  her  uncle 
about  my  accident,"  the  invalid  went  on.  "  Dr. 
Randolph  made  an  examination,  and  he  hopes 
that  I  may  be  much  helped  by  an  operation.  He 
is  going  to  bring  another  surgeon  to  see  me  to- 
morrow, and  if  they  agree  in  their  opinion,  I  am 
to  go  to  a  hospital." 

Miss  Graham  spoke  cheerfully,  but  there  was  a 
slight  tremor  in  her  voice,  and  Marjorie  grew 
suddenly  grave.  They  were  both  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  then  Marjorie  said : 

"  Isn't  Beverly  a  dear,  and  don't  you  like  Dr. 
Randolph  ever  so  much,  too?" 

"  I  do  indeed,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  heartily.  "  I 
shall  never  forget  their  kindness  during  that  long 
journey.  As  for  Undine,  she  could  not  have 
been  more  devoted  to  me  if  she  had  been  my  own 
little  niece.  It  has  been  a  wonderful  experience, 
Marjorie;  I  never  expected  to  see  the  East 
again." 

Marjorie  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"  Beautiful  things  do  happen  in  the  world  as 
well  as  sad  ones,  don't  they?"  she  said,  softly. 
"  When  I  think  of  you  and  Mother  being  here, 
and  of  Mrs.   Randolph  having  found  her  Bar- 


MARJORIE  HAS  HER  WISH    333 

bara,  my  heart  is  so  full  it  seems  as  if  it  must 
surely  burst.  Here  comes  Mother;  perhaps  she 
will  be  able  to  tell  us  how  Mrs.  Randolph  has 
borne  the  shock.', 

Mrs.  Graham's  news  was  most  reassuring. 
"  I  have  seen  Beverly,"  she  said,  "  and  he  says 
his  mother  is  quite  calm  now.     At  first  they  were 
anxious  about  her,  but  only  for  a  little  while. 
Beverly  says  his  uncle  thinks  it  was  a  fortunate 
thing  you  were  able  to  prepare  her  a  little  before 
they  came,   Marjorie;  otherwise  it  would  have 
been  more  difficult  to  break  the  news  to  her." 
Marjorie  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 
"  I'm  so  glad  it  wasn't  wrong,"  she  said.     "  I 
was  horribly  frightened  after  I  had  begun,  but 
when  Mrs.  Randolph  showed  me  that  picture,  it 
came  to  me  all  at  once  to  tell  her  about  Undine. 
I  thought  that  if  she  heard  of  one  girl  who  was 
saved  from  the  earthquake,  she  might  be  able  to 
believe  that  another  girl  was  saved,  too." 

Mrs.  Graham  and  Miss  Jessie  both  smiled,  and 
then  Mrs.  Graham  said  she  must  obey  the  doctor's 
instructions,  and  see  that  her  sister-in-law  was 
kept  quiet,  and  went  to  sleep  early. 

Marjorie  and  her  mother  had  a  long  talk  that 
night,  after  Aunt  Jessie  was  asleep,  and  the  girl 
opened  her  heart  as  she  had  not  done  since  leav- 


334    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

ing  home,  and  Mrs.  Graham  learned  of  many 
things  that  she  had  not  been  told  in  letters. 

"  I  think  Elsie  really  does  like  me  now,"  fin- 
ished Marjorie,  when  she  had  told  of  the  many 
heartaches  caused  by  the  fear  that  her  cousin  did 
not  like  her.  "  She  has  been  very  sweet  since  I 
came  back  from  Virginia,  and  just  as  kind  and 
sympathetic  as  she  could  be." 

Mrs.  Graham  looked  pleased. 

"  Elsie  has  been  spoiled,"  she  said,  "  but  I  be- 
lieve she  has  the  right  stuff  in  her,  after  all.  I 
am  glad  you  have  told  me  all  these  things,  dear, 
although  I  understand  your  reasons  for  not  writ- 
ing them.  You  have  had  a  harder  time  than  I 
suspected,  but  I  don't  think  it  has  done  you  any 
harm.  Do  you  know,  Marjorie,  I  am  inclined  to 
be  rather  proud  of  my  little  girl? " 

Those  last  words  of  her  mother's  filled  Mar- 
jorie's  cup  to  the  brim,  and  I  doubt  if  in  all  the 
great  city  that  night,  there  were  two  happier  be- 
ings than  she  and  Barbara  Randolph. 

But  it  was  not  all  happiness  for  Marjorie  dur- 
ing the  next  few  days.  There  followed  hours  of 
keen  anxiety  about  Aunt  Jessie,  and  for  a  time 
she  forgot  everything  else  while  she  waited  in  sus- 
pense for  the  verdict  of  the  two  great  surgeons. 

It  was  on  an  afternoon  three  days  later,  that 


MARJORIE  HAS  HER  WISH    335 

she  and  Barbara  sat  together  in  the  Randolphs' 
parlor,  waiting  for  the  news,  which  was  to  tell 
them  whether  Jessie  Graham  was  to  go  through 
life  a  helpless  cripple,  or  be  restored  to  health  and 
strength  once  more.  The  day  before  she  had 
been  taken  to  a  private  hospital,  and  the  girls 
knew  that  an  operation  was  to  be  performed  that 
afternoon.  They  were  alone,  for  Mrs,  Graham 
was  with  her  sister-in-law,  and  Mrs.  Randolph  — ■ 
almost  as  anxious  as  the  others  —  had  gone  to 
the  hospital  for  news,  promising  to  return  as  soon 
as  possible.  So  Mar j one  and  Barbara  sat  to- 
gether side  by  side  on  the  sofa,  holding  each 
other's  hands,  and  waiting  in  almost  breathless 
suspense. 

"  Mother  will  be  sure  to  let  us  know  just  as 
soon  as  there's  anything  to  tell,"  whispered  Bar- 
bara, anxious  to  cheer  her  friend.  "  She  says 
Uncle  George  told  her  he  was  very  hopeful." 

"  I  know,"  said  Marjorie,  "  he  told  us  all  so, 
but  I  can't  help  being  frightened  when  I  think  of 
all  it  means  to  Aunt  Jessie.  She  doesn't  say 
much,  but  I  know  how  she  must  feel.  Just  think 
how  we  would  feel  if  we  hadn't  walked  a  step  for 
more  than  eight  years." 

"Where  is  your  cousin  this  afternoon?"  in- 
quired Barbara,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject. 


336     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

She  was  almost  as  anxious  as  Marjorie,  but  she 
had  been  living  at  high  pressure  for  so  long,  it 
was  a  relief  to  get  down  to  commonplaces. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie;  "  she  was  go- 
ing out,  but  it  rained  so  hard  Aunt  Julia  wouldn't 
let  her  go,  on  account  of  her  cold.  Aunt  Julia  is 
very  fussy  about  colds." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  would  like  to  come  in 
here  with  us?"  suggested  Barbara.  "  She  may 
be  lonely  all  by  herself." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  is  lonely,"  said  Marjorie, 
doubtfully,  "  but  if  you  think  she  might  like  to 
come  — " 

A  ring  at  the  door-bell  brought  Marjorie's  sen- 
tence to  an  abrupt  end,  and  both  girls  sprang  to 
their  feet. 

"  I'll  see  who  it  is,"  said  Barbara ;  "  it  may  be 
a  message  from  Mother."  And  she  flew  to  open 
the  door,  while  Marjorie  sank  back  in  her  seat, 
feeling  suddenly  cold  and  sick  with  fear. 

But  it  was  not  a  message  from  Mrs.  Randolph ; 
it  was  Elsie. 

"  I  just  came  to  ask  if  you  had  heard  anything 
yet,"  she  said,  looking  rather  embarrassed,  as  she 
noticed  the  expression  of  disappointment  on  Bar- 
bara's face. 

"No,   we  haven't,"   Barbara  answered;   "we 


MARJORIE  HAS  HER  WISH    337 

thought  it  might  be  a  message  when  we  heard  the 
bell.     Won't  you  come  in?  " 

Elsie  hesitated. 

"  Do  you  really  want  me?"  she  asked,  doubt- 
fully; "I  thought  perhaps  you  would  rather  be 
by  yourselves." 

"  Of  course  we  want  you,"  declared  Barbara, 
heartily,  while  Marjorie —  in  the  background  — 
gave  a  little  gasp  of  astonishment.  Such  humil- 
ity from  the  proud  Elsie  was  something  that  had 
never  entered  her  imagination. 

Elsie  made  no  remark,  but  she  came  in,  and 
followed  Barbara  to  the  sitting-room,  where  Mar- 
jorie smiled  a  welcome  which  appeared  to  set  her 
cousin  more  at  her  ease. 

"lam  sure  you  must  be  almost  as  anxious  as 
we  are,"  said  Barbara,  "  though  of  course  you 
don't  know  Miss  Jessie  as  well.  No  one  could 
help  loving  her." 

"  No,  they  couldn't,"  agreed  Elsie,  in  a  rather 
low  voice,  and  then  she  walked  over  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stood  with  her  back  to  the  others,  look- 
ing out  at  the  falling  rain. 

Nobody  talked  much  during  the  next  half- 
hour.  Marjorie  and  Barbara  both  had  lumps  in 
their  throats,  and  words  did  not  come  easily. 
Elsie,  too,  was  unusually  silent.     There  was  an- 


338    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

other  little  excitement  when  the  bell  rang  again, 
and  Beverly  came  in.  Beverly  had  been  through 
a  great  deal  during  the  past  two  weeks,  but  boys 
of  eighteen  cannot  live  on  high  pressure  for  very 
long  without  a  reaction  setting  in.  Beverly  was 
a  very  natural,  healthy-minded  boy,  and  the  re- 
action in  his  case  took  the  form  of  unusually  high 
spirits. 

"  Don't  all  have  such  long  faces,"  he  re- 
marked, cheerfully,  surveying  the  solemn  little 
group.  "  Just  make  up  your  minds  everything  is 
coming  out  all  right,  and  you'll  see  it  will.  I've 
got  more  faith  in  Uncle  George  than  in  any  other 
surgeon  in  the  country.  Think  of  what  he  did 
for  that  English  boy  we  met  at  the  Bells'." 

"  I  know  Uncle  George  is  wonderful,"  said 
Barbara,  a  trifle  more  hopeful,  "  but  even  he  may 
not  be  able  to  cure  everybody.  You  would  be 
just  as  anxious  as  Marjorie  and  I,  Beverly,  if  you 
knew  dear  Miss  Jessie  as  well  as  we  do." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  wasn't  anxious.  I  only  said 
I  didn't  see  any  use  in  such  long  faces  before  you 
know  whether  there  was  anything  to  be  mournful 
about.  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Elsie?  I  haven't 
seen  you  in  a  week  of  Sundays." 

In  his  present  exuberant  spirits,  Beverly  was 
quite  ready  to   forget  past  unpleasantness,   but 


MARJORIE  HAS  HER  WISH    339 

Elsie  had  not  forgotten,  as  her  heightened  color 
and  embarrassed  manner  plainly  showed. 

Beverly  went  to  the  piano,  and  began  playing 
rag-time,  with  the  cheerful  desire  of  raising  the 
drooping  spirits  of  the  party.  He  proposed  they 
should  sing  college  songs,  but  nobody  felt  in- 
clined for  singing  and  the  attempt  proved  a  dis- 
mal failure. 

"  What  a;  very  uncomfortable  thing  suspense 
is,"  remarked  Barbara,  as  the  clock  struck  five. 

"  You  would  say  so  if  you  had  been  through 
the  suspense  Marjorie  and  I  have,"  her  brother 
said.  "  We  know  something  of  what  suspense 
means,  don't  we,  Marjorie?" 

"  Indeed  we  do,"  said  Marjorie,  rousing  her- 
self from  present  anxieties  with  an  effort.  "  Oh, 
Beverly,  those  awful  days  when  you  and  your 
uncle  were  on  your  way  to  Arizona,  and  I 
couldn't  be  absolutely  sure  I  hadn't  made  a  mis- 
take about  that  photo  after  all.  Suppose  I  had 
been  mistaken,  and  you  had  had  that  terrible  dis- 
appointment !  " 

"  Well,  you  were  not  mistaken,  you  see,"  broke 
in  Beverly,  who  felt  that  the  recollection  of  those 
days  was  still  too  vivid  to  bear  discussion. 
"  Come  and  sit  by  me,  Babs,"  and  he  made  room 
for  his  sister  on  the  piano  stool. 


340    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

But  all  suspense,  however  long,  must  come  to 
an  end  at  last,  and  just  as  the  clock  was  striking 
half  past  five,  there  was  another  ring  at  the  bell, 
followed  by  a  simultaneous  rush  to  the  door. 
Only  Marjorie  remained  behind.  Until  that  mo- 
ment she  had  scarcely  realized  how  great  her  anx- 
iety was,  and  her  knees  shook  so  that  she  could 
not  rise  from  her  chair.  She  heard  all  the  others 
talking  at  once,  apparently  asking  some  question, 
and  then  Mrs.  Randolph's  voice,  but  she  could  not 
hear  her  words. 

"  Marjorie,  Marjorie,  where  are  you?  "  cried 
Barbara  joyfully;  "  here's  Mother!  " 

"  I'm  here,"  said  Marjorie,  faintly,  and  the 
next  moment  Mrs.  Randolph  was  beside  her, 
holding  both  her  cold  hands.  Marjorie's  eyes 
asked  the  question  her  lips  refused  to  form,  and 
Mrs.  Randolph  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"  Marjorie  dear,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was 
not  quite  steady,  though  she  was  smiling,  "  your 
mother  wanted  me  to  tell  you  that  the  operation 
is  over,  and  that  Dr.  Randolph  feels  almost  cer- 
tain it  has  been  successful." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ELSIE   REDEEMS    HERSELF 

"  Do  you  know,  Aunt  Jessie,  that  to-morrow 
will  be  the  first  of  May?  It's  nearly  four  months 
since  you  and  Mother  came  to  New  York." 

Miss  Graham  was  leaning  back  in  a  comfort- 
able   arm-chair   by    an    open    window,    through 
which  the  bright  spring  sunshine  was  pouring, 
flooding  every  corner  of  the  pleasant  hotel  bed- 
room.    She  was  still  looking  rather  frail  and  deli- 
cate, but  there  was  an  expression  of  hope  and  joy 
in  her  face,  that  had  never  been  there  in  the  old 
days  at  the  ranch.     A  crutch  stood  at  her  side, 
but  there  was  no  wheeled-chair  to  be  seen.     At 
Marjorie's  words  she  looked  round  with  a  smile. 
"  Time  has  certainly  flown,"  she  said.     "  Have 
you  had  a  pleasant  ride?  " 

"It    was    glorious.     Beverly    and    I    had    a 

splendid  gallop.     I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  drive." 

"  Yes,  it  was  lovely,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  secretly 

thinking  that  Marjorie  had  grown  very  pretty 

lately.     She  looked  so  well  in  her  perfectly  fitting 

34i  ' 


342     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

riding  habit,  with  her  rosy  cheeks  and  sparkling 
eyes.  "  I  wasn't  at  all  tired  when  I  came  home 
either,  which  Dr.  Randolph  considers  a  distinct 
gain.  He  says  I  am  one  of  his  star  patients. 
Have  you  finished  your  lessons  for  to-morrow?  " 

"  Haven't  any ;  it's  Saturday,  you  know.  I 
shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  study  between  now 
and  Monday.  I  came  to  have  a  little  chat  with 
you  before  I  dress.  I'm  going  out  this  evening, 
you  remember.  It's  the  last  meeting  of  the  Club, 
and  quite  an  important  occasion.  The  Bells  are 
sailing  for  Europe  to-morrow,  and  Lulu  is  our 
president." 

"  I  thought  you  wrote  me  that  Elsie  was  elected 
president,"  said  Miss  Graham,  who  seldom  for- 
got anything  Marjorie  told  her. 

"  She  was  at  first,"  said  Marjorie,  hoping  her 
aunt  would  not  notice  her  suddenly  heightened 
color.  She  drew  a  low  chair  to  Miss  Jessie's 
side,  and  settled  herself  for  a  comfortable  chat. 

"  Why  did  she  give  it  up?"  Miss  Graham  in- 
quired, with  interest. 

"I  —  I  don't  exactly  know.  It  was  after  I 
came  back  from  Virginia  and  Barbara  came 
home.  She  said  she  would  rather  not  be  presi- 
dent any  more,  and  asked  Lulu  to  take  her 
place." 


ELSIE  REDEEMS  HERSELF    343 

"  I  like  Elsie,"  said  Miss  Jessie.  "  She  is  very 
clever,  and  has  been  rather  spoiled  in  conse- 
quence, but  there  is  much  that  is  fine  about  her. 
She  will  make  a  noble  woman,  I  am  sure." 

Marjorie  looked  pleased. 

"  Elsie  likes  you,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  think 
she  is  really  fond  of  many  people.  She  hasn't 
nearly  as  many  friends  as  most  of  the  girls  at 
school  have,  but  I  love  her  dearly,  and  so  does 
Babs." 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  your  father  this  after- 
noon," Miss  Jessie  said,  after  a  little  pause;  "  I 
am  keeping  it  for  you  to  read.  He  says  things 
are  looking  up  at  the  ranch,  and  he  is  hoping  for 
a  better  season  than  last.  He  thinks  he  may  pos- 
sibly be  able  to  come  East  for  us  himself  next 
month.  I  do  hope  he  can,  for  it  would  be  such 
a  treat  for  him." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  thankful  to  get  Mother  back," 
said  Marjorie,  "  but,  oh,  how  we  do  miss  her, 
don't  we,  Aunt  Jessie?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  but  it  wouldn't  have  been  fair 
to  have  kept  her  any  longer  when  she  was  so 
anxious  to  get  home  to  your  father.  After  all, 
she  had  a  good  long  rest,  and  your  father  de- 
clares she  is  looking  ten  years  younger  in  conse- 
quence." 


344    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA. 

"  What  a  wonderful  winter  it  has  been,"  said 
Marjorie,  reflectively,  resting  her  knee  against 
her  aunt's  knee.  "  When  I  left  home  last  Oc- 
tober, how  little  any  of  us  dreamed  of  all  the 
strange,  beautiful  things  that  were  going  to  hap- 
pen. Those  first  weeks  were  pretty  hard ;  I  was 
a  good  deal  more  homesick  than  I  let  any  of  you 
know,  but  I  knew  everybody  meant  to  be  kind 
and  I  did  try  hard  to  make  the  best  of  things. 
Then  came  the  Randolphs'  invitation  to  spend  the 
holidays  in  Virginia,  and  the  wonderful  discovery 
about  Undine.  And  then  —  as  if  that  wasn't 
happiness  enough  —  Dr.  Randolph  saw  you,  and 
brought  you  and  Mother  back  to  New  York  with 
him.  The  operation  was  pretty  dreadful,  but 
ever  since  Dr.  Randolph  told  us  he  was  sure  it 
had  been  a  success,  everything  has  been  simply 
heavenly." 

Miss  Jessie  said  nothing,  but  softly  stroked 
Marjorie's  hair,  and  there  was  such  a  look  of  joy 
in  her  eyes,  that  the  girl  could  not  help  being 
struck  by  it. 

"  Aunt  Jessie,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  do  you 
know,  I  never  realized  before  how  young  you  are. 
I  used  to  think  of  you  as  quite  a  middle-aged 
lady,  but  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  you  look  differ- 
ent now  somehow  —  almost  like  a  girl." 


ELSIE  REDEEMS  HERSELF    345 

"  I  was  twenty-nine  last  week/'  said  Miss  Jes- 
sie, smiling;  "I  suppose  twenty-nine  may  seem 
middle-aged  to  fifteen." 

"But  it  doesn't,"  protested  Marjorie;  te  not  a 
bit ;  I  think  I  must  have  been  a  goose  ever  to  have 
thought  such  a  thing.  Beverly  calls  you  a  per- 
fect trump,  and  he  wouldn't  say  that  about  any 
one  he  considered  middle-aged ;  it  wouldn't  be  re- 
spectful." 

il  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  Beverly  for  his 
good  opinion,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  laughing  and 
blushing  in  such  a  very  girlish  manner  that  her 
niece  regarded  her  in  growing  astonishment. 

"  I  believe  it's  the  thought  of  being  well  and 
strong  again  that  has  made  all  the  difference," 
she  said.  "  Oh,  Aunt  Jessie  darling,  think  of  it, 
you'll  never  have  to  sit  in  that  dreadful  wheeled- 
chair  again!  What  walks  and  rides  we'll  have 
together.  Are  you  sure  Dr.  Randolph  will  let 
you  go  back  to  the  ranch  in  June?  " 

"  He  says  I  shall  be  quite  strong  enough  for 
the  journey  by  that  time,"  Miss  Graham  an- 
swered, but  she  did  not  meet  Marjorie's  direct 
gaze  as  she  spoke.  "  I  feel  that  I  ought  not  to 
trespass  on  the  Randolphs'  hospitality  any  longer 
than  is  necessary.  Think  of  what  they  have  done 
for  me,  Marjorie.     First  all  those  weeks  at  the 


346     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

hospital,  and  then  insisting  on  my  coming  here, 
and  all  of  it  just  because  we  were  kind  to  Un- 
dine." 

"  I  don't  think  that  is  the  only  reason,"  said 
Marjorie,  eagerly.  "  That  was  the  beginning  of 
it,  of  course,  but  now  they  all  love  you  for  your- 
self. Babs  says  her  mother  loves  you  dearly, 
and  she  and  Beverly  were  both  so  pleased  because 
you  said  they  might  call  you  '  Aunt  Jessie.'  As 
for  the  doctor,  I'm  sure  he  likes  you  ever  so 
much." 

"  There's  some  one  at  the  door ;  go  and  see  who 
it  is,  Marjorie." 

Marjorie  rose  obediently,  wondering  what  could 
have  possibly  caused  her  aunt's  sudden  embar- 
rassment, and  when  she  returned  she  was  fol- 
lowed by  Barbara,  who  had  also  dropped  in  for 
a  little  chat,  Miss  Jessie's  room  being  a  favorite 
rendezvous  with  all  the  young  people. 

"Well,  and  what  have  you  been  doing  this 
afternoon?"  Miss  Graham  asked  pleasantly,  as 
Barbara  settled  herself  for  a  comfortable  half- 
hour. 

"  I  went  for  a  walk  with  Elsie  and  Hortense. 
We  had  a  nice  time,  but  I  don't  think  Elsie  felt 
very  well,  she  was  so  quiet.     I  asked  her  if  her 


ELSIE  REDEEMS  HERSELF    347 

head  ached,  and  she  said  no,  but  I'm  afraid  it 
did." 

"  I  don't  think  Elsie  has  seemed  quite  like  her- 
self for  several  days,"  said  Miss  Jessie,  a  little 
anxiously.  "  Perhaps  she  is  studying  too  hard ; 
her  mother  tells  me  she  is  so  very  ambitious." 

Neither  of  the  girls  had  any  explanation  to 
suggest,  and  they  all  chatted  on  pleasantly  on 
various  subjects  until  it  was  time  to  go  away  and 
dress  for  dinner.  Barbara  was  also  going  to  the 
Club  that  evening,  having  been  admitted  as  a 
guest  of  honor  some  months  before.  Indeed,  she 
was  quite  the  heroine  of  the  hour,  for  the  ro- 
mantic story  had  quickly  spread  from  friends  and 
acquaintances  to  strangers,  and  she  had  even  been 
written  about  in  several  newspapers,  a  circum- 
stance which  had  filled  the  breasts  of  some  other 
girls  with  envy.  For  several  weeks  there  was 
not  a  girl  in  the  city  so  much  talked  about  as 
Barbara  Randolph,  the  child  who  had  been 
mourned  as  dead  by  her  family  for  nearly  three 
years,  and  then  reappeared  under  conditions  suf- 
ficiently interesting  and  romantic  to  fill  the  pages 
of  a  thrilling  story-book.  The  Randolphs  dis- 
liked the  publicity,  but  Barbara  was  pursued  by 
reporters  and  photographers  until  Beverly  lost 


348     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

his  temper,  and  positively  refused  to  allow  any 
member  of  the  family  to  grant  another  interview. 

"How  does  it  feel  to  know  that  everybody  in 
New  York  is  talking  about  you,  and  all  the  papers 
asking  for  your  picture?"  Elsie  had  asked  one 
day,  to  which  Barbara  had  answered,  with  a 
laugh : 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  particular  feel- 
ings about  it.  I  am  too  happy  at  being  at  home 
again  with  Mother  and  Beverly  to  care  for  any- 
thing else  in  the  world." 

Elsie  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  when  Marjorie 
returned  to  her  uncle's  apartment,  and  the  cousins 
did  not  meet  till  they  were  both  dressed  for  the 
evening,  and  had  joined  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carleton 
in  the  drawing-room.  Then  Mrs.  Carleton's  first 
words  were  an  anxious  question. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  feeling  quite  well  this 
evening,  Elsie  darling?     You  are  very  pale." 

"  Of  course  I'm  all  right,"  said  Elsie,  crossly. 
"  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  fuss  so  much  about  me, 
Mamma." 

Mrs.  Carleton  sighed. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  intend  to  fuss,"  she  said, 
plaintively,  "  but  how  can  I  help  worrying  when 
I  see  you  looking  so  badly,  especially  when  you 
will  insist  on  studying  so  hard  ?  " 


ELSIE  REDEEMS  HERSELF    349 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Carleton,  looking  up 
from  his  evening  paper,  with  a  frown.  "  I  have 
looked  over  Elsie's  lessons,  and  there  is  nothing 
wrong  there.  She  isn't  studying  any  harder  than 
a  healthy  girl  of  her  age  should.  What's  the 
matter,  Elsie  —  don't  you  feel  quite  up  to  the 
mark  ?  " 

He  spoke  kindly,  but  his  tone  was  a  trifle  im- 
patient, and  before  Elsie  could  reply,  her  mother 
began  again. 

"  She  won't  tell  you;  she  insists  there  is  noth- 
ing the  matter,  but  she  has  not  looked  like  herself 
for  days.  If  she  isn't  better  to-morrow  I  shall 
have  the  doctor  see  her,  and  give  her  a  tonic." 

Mr.  Carleton  threw  down  his  newspaper. 

"  My  dear  Julia,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  you  con- 
sider a  tonic  a  cure  for  every  evil  in  the  world. 
The  girls  are  ready,  so  let  us  go  down  to  dinner, 
and  see  if  Elsie  doesn't  make  up  for  her  loss  of 
appetite  at  luncheon." 

But  Elsie  did  not  make  up  for  her  lack  of  ap- 
petite at  luncheon.  She  toyed  with  her  food,  and 
her  color  changed  so  often,  from  white  to  red, 
and  back  to  white  again,  that  by  the  time  dinner 
was  over  even  her  father  began  to  look  at  her 
curiously.  But  when  Mrs.  Carleton  suggested 
that  she  should  not  go  to  Gertie  Rossiter's,  where 


'3$o    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

the  Club  was  to  be  held  that  evening,  she  pro- 
tested that  she  was  perfectly  well,  and  was  so  de- 
cided in  her  determination  to  go,  that,  as  usual, 
she  had  her  way. 

The  meeting  was  at  eight,  and  Marjorie  and 
Elsie  were  obliged  to  hurry  away  from  the  din- 
ner table  to  join  the  two  Randolphs,  as  the  four 
were  to  go  together  in  the  Carletons'  carriage. 

"  Uncle  George  says  we  might  have  had  his 
car  as  well  as  not,"  remarked  Barbara,  as  they 
took  their  seats  in  the  carriage.  "  He  has  come 
to  spend  the  evening  with  Mother  and  Aunt  Jes- 
sie, and  won't  need  it." 

"  Your  uncle  is  very  generous  with  his  car," 
said  Marjorie,  innocently.  "  He  lent  it  to  your 
mother  and  Aunt  Jessie  this  afternoon,  you  know, 
and  Aunt  Jessie  said  they  had  a  beautiful  ride." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  George  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  Aunt  Jessie,"  remarked  Barbara,  at 
which  her  brother  smiled  a  rather  mischievous 
smile,  but  said  nothing. 

There  was  an  unusually  large  gathering  of  the 
Club  that  evening,  in  honor  of  the  president,  who, 
with  her  family,  was  to  sail  for  Europe  the  fol- 
lowing day.  As  it  was  a  gala  occasion,  no  sew- 
ing was  to  be  done,  and  the  boys  were  invited  to 


ELSIE  REDEEMS  HERSELF    351 

come  with  the  girls,  and  devote  the  evening  to 
dancing  and  games. 

"  I'm  afraid  our  sewing  really  hasn't  amounted 
to  very  much,"  Winifred  Hamilton  remarked  rue- 
fully. "Mother  says  she's  afraid  the  Blind 
Babies  would  be  badly  off  if  they  had  to  depend 
upon  us  for  clothes,  but  we've  had  an  awfully 
jolly  winter,  and  I'm  sorry  it's  over,  aren't  you, 
Mr.  Randolph?" 

"  Well,  summer  is  pretty  jolly,  too,  you  know," 
answered  Beverly,  smiling.  "  I  sha'n't  be  sorry 
to  have  vacation  begin.  We  are  going  abroad  as 
soon  as  college  closes." 

"How  nice,"  said  Winifred,  looking  inter- 
ested ;  "  perhaps  you'll  meet  the  Bells.  They  ex- 
pect to  stay  over  till  October.  I  really  don't 
know  how  I  shall  manage  to  get  on  so  long  with- 
out Lulu." 

"Why  don't  you  go,  too?"  Beverly  asked, 
good-naturedly. 

"  I  should  love  to,  but  I  couldn't  leave  Mother. 
Dr.  Bell  offered  to  take  me,  and  Father  and 
Mother  said  I  might  go  if  I  liked,  but  I  couldn't 
make  up  my  mind  to  leave  them.  Perhaps  -some 
day  we  shall  go  ourselves,"  finished  Winifred, 
trying  to  look  hopeful. 


352     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

"  I'll  let  you  into  a  little  secret  if  you'll  promise 
not  to  tell,"  said  Beverly,  who  had  a  genuine  lik- 
ing for  Winifred,  despite  the  fact  that  she  was 
"  young  for  her  age."  "  My  mother  is  very  anx- 
ious to  have  Marjorie  go  with  us,  provided  her 
parents  will  consent.  Miss  Graham  thinks  they 
will,  and  Mother  has  written  to  ask  them  before 
speaking  to  Marjorie  herself.  Mind  you  don't 
tell,  for  it's  a  great  secret.  Even  Babs  doesn't 
know,  for  she  and  Marjorie  are  such  chums  she 
would  be  sure  to  let  something  out.  Hello! 
what's  up?    Lulu  is  going  to  make  a  speech." 

There  was  a  sudden  hush  as  Lulu,  with  Elsie 
at  her  side,  stepped  forward,  and  rapped  sharply 
on  the  table,  to  call  the  club  to  order. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  began  in  what 
the  girls  called  "  her  presidential  tone,"  "  I  didn't 
expect  to  have  any  regular  meeting  this  evening, 
but  Miss  Elsie  Carleton  has  an  announcement  to 
make,  and  has  asked  me  to  tell  you  she  would  like 
to  speak.  As  you  all  know  Miss  Carleton  was 
your  president  until  she  resigned  in  favor  of  an- 
other, I  am  sure  you  will  all  be  pleased  to  hear 
what  she  has  to  say.  Go  ahead,  Elsie;  every- 
body's listening." 

All  eyes  were  turned  in  surprise  upon  Elsie,  as 
she  stood  before  them,  very  pale,  but  with  a  look 


ELSIE  REDEEMS  HERSELF    353 

of  settled  determination  on  her  face.  Twice  she 
tried  to  speak,  and  stopped,  and  they  could  all  see 
that  she  was  very  nervous.  Then  the  words 
came,  very  low,  but  sufficiently  audible  to  reach 
every  ear  in  the  room. 

"  Girls,"  she  began,  looking  straight  before  her, 
and  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  as  she 
spoke,  "girls  and  boys,  too,  for  I  want  you  all 
to  hear.  I  have  a  confession  to  make.  It's  about 
something  that  happened  at  the  first  meeting  of 
this  Club  —  the  night  we  were  all  initiated. 
That  poem  I  wrote  —  some  of  you  thought  it  was 
the  best,  and  you  made  me  president  —  it  —  it 
wasn't  original;  I  learned  it  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  but  I  thought  nobody  would  recognize  it. 
I  didn't  mean  to  cheat  at  first,  but  I  couldn't 
make  up  anything  that  I  thought  was  good 
enough,  and  I  hated  to  have  the  other  poems  bet- 
ter than  mine.  I  haven't  anything  more  to  say 
except  that  I've  been  ashamed  of  myself  ever 
since,  and  I  can't  have  you  go  on  thinking  me 
cleverer  than  I  am,  any  longer."  And  then, 
without  waiting  to  note  the  effect  of  her  startling 
announcement,  Elsie  turned  and  fled. 

Marjorie  and  Barbara  found  her  upstairs  in 
the  dressing-room,  crying  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.     Neither  of  them'  said  a  word,  but  Mar- 


354    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

jorie  put  her  arms  round  her  cousin's  neck  and 
hugged  her. 

"  What  are  they  saying  about  me?"  whispered 
Elsie,  burying  her  face  on  Marjorie's  shoulder. 
"  Do  they  all  despise  me?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  declared  Marjorie,  reassur- 
ingly. "  They're  all  saying  how  plucky  it  was  of 
you  to  confess.  Lulu  says  she  never  liked  you  so 
much  before  in  her  life.  As  for  me,  I'm  so 
proud  of  you  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Oh,  El- 
sie darling,  I'm  so  glad  you  did  it !  " 

"  It  was  you  who  made  me  do  it,"  sobbed 
Elsie,  clinging  to  her  cousin.  "  You  were  so 
splendid  about  it  all.  You  knew,  and  yet  you 
never  told  any  one,  not  even  Papa  when  he  was 
provoked  with  you,  because  you  wouldn't  explain 
what  the  trouble  between  us  was.  Your  brother 
knew  too,  Babs,  and  he  has  never  said  a  word, 
but  I  know  how  he  has  despised  me.  I've  de- 
spised myself  too  —  oh,  how  I  have  despised  my- 
self !  I've  been  selfish  and  conceited  all  my  life, 
and  I  didn't  care  much,  but  one  can't  help  feeling 
mean  and  ashamed  beside  girls  like  you,  and 
brave,  wonderful  women  like  Aunt  Jessie.  I 
don't  believe  I've  got  one  real  friend  in  the 
world." 

"  You've   got   lots,"    protested    Marjorie    and 


"It  Takes  a  Lot  of  Pluck  to  Get  up  and  Say   a   Thing 
like  that." — Page  355.    *    •••;:*..• 


ELSIE*  REDEEMS  HERSELF    355 

Barbara  both  together.  "  Just  come  downstairs 
and  see  if  you  haven't." 

It  was  a  very  quiet,  subdued  Elsie  who  reen- 
tered the  drawing-room,  escorted  by  her  two 
staunch  friends,  but  the  welcome  she  received 
was  such  that,  before  the  evening  was  over,  she 
found  herself  able  to  smile,  and  take  a  passing 
interest  in  life  once  more.  Elsie  had  many 
faults,  but  she  was  not  a  bad  girl,  and  she  had 
learned  a  lesson  that  would  last  her  all  her  life. 
One  of  the  first  to  approach  her  and  hold  out  his 
hand,  was  Beverly  Randolph. 

"  You're  a  trump,  Elsie,"  he  said,  in  his  blunt, 
boyish  way.  "  It  takes  a  lot  of  pluck  to  get  up 
and  say  a  thing  like  that.  Let's  shake  hands  and 
be  friends."  And  at  that  moment  Elsie  was  hap- 
pier than  she  had  been  in  months. 

"  I  think  I'll  just  stop  a  minute  to  say  good- 
night to  Aunt  Jessie,"  remarked  Marjorie,  as 
they  were  going  up  to  their  apartment  in  the  lift. 
"  I  don't  believe  she  has  gone  to  bed  yet  if  Dr. 
Randolph  is  spending  the  evening.  Tell  Aunt 
Julia  I'll  be  right  up,  Elsie." 

So  Marjorie  stepped  out  of  the  lift  with  the 
Randolphs,  while  Elsie  went  up  another  floor  to 
her  own  apartment.  Mrs.  Randolph  had  insisted 
that  Miss  Graham  should  be  her  guest  on  leaving 


356     THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

the  hospital,  and  one  of  the  most  comfortable 
rooms  in  the  apartment  had  been  assigned  to  her. 

It  was  Mrs.  Randolph  herself  who  opened  the 
door  for  the  young  people ;  she  was  smiling,  and 
looked  as  if  she  were  pleased  about  something. 

"Has  Aunt  Jessie  gone  to  bed?"  Marjorie 
asked. 

"  No,  dear,  she  is  in  the  parlor  with  Uncle 
George,  and  I  think  she  wants  to  see  you." 

Barbara  hurried  her  mother  off  to  her  room,  to 
tell  of  the  events  of  the  evening,  and  Beverly 
followed,  at  a  mysterious  signal  from  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph, so  Marjorie  was  the  only  one  to  enter  the 
cozy  little  parlor,  where  she  found  her  aunt  and 
the  doctor  sitting  on  the  sofa  side  by  side. 

"  I  just  came  in  for  a  minute  to  say  good- 
night," she  began.  "  I've  had  a  lovely  evening, 
and  —  and — "  here  Marjorie  paused  abruptly, 
struck  by  something  unusual  in  the  faces  of  her 
two  listeners. 

"Is  —  is  anything  the  matter?"  she  inquired 

anxiously. 

"  Do  we  look  as  if  there  were?  "  inquired  the 
doctor,  and  he  smiled  such  a  radiant  smile  that 
Marjorie's  sudden  anxiety  melted  into  thin  air. 

"  No,  not  exactly,  but  Aunt  Jessie  looks  so  — 


ELSIE  REDEEMS  HERSELF    357 

so  different.  Oh,  Aunt  Jessie  darling,  I  know 
something  has  happened  —  is  it  good  news?" 

"The  very  best  news  in  the  world  for  me," 
said  the  doctor,  laughing,  while  Aunt  Jessie  drew 
her  niece  into  her  arms,  and  hid  her  smiling, 
blushing  face  on  Marjorie's  shoulder.  "  Your 
aunt  has  promised  to  give  me  something  that  I 
want  more  than  anything  else.  Marjorie,  do  you 
think  you  would  like  to  have  me  for  an  uncle?  " 

"  And  that  was  just  the  crowning  happiness  of 
all,"  said  Marjorie,  when  she  and  Elsie  were  talk- 
ing things  over  half  an  hour  later.  "  I  thought 
I  was  just  as  happy  as  any  girl  could  be  before, 
but  when  I  saw  that  look  on  Aunt  Jessie's  face, 
and  thought  of  all  she  had  suffered,  and  how 
brave  she  had  been,  it  seemed  as  if  my  heart 
would  burst  with  gladness.  It's  just  the  most 
beautiful  ending  to  a  beautiful  winter." 

"  I  wish  I  had  done  more  to  make  the  first  part 
of  the  winter  happy,"  said  Elsie,  with  a  remorse- 
ful sigh.  "  I  don't  see  why  you  didn't  hate  me, 
Marjorie;  I'm  sure  I  deserved  it." 

"  Why,  I  couldn't,"  said  Marjorie,  simply, 
"  you  were  my  own  cousin,  you  know." 

Elsie  went  up  to  her  cousin,  and  put  her  arms 
round  her.     That  was  such  an  unusual  proceed- 


358    THE  GIRL  FROM  ARIZONA 

ing  from  cold,  undemonstrative  Elsie  that  Mar- 
jorie  was  speechless  with  astonishment. 

"  I  believe  you  are  the  best  girl  in  the  world, 
Marjorie,"  she  said,  unsteadily.  "  I'm  not 
worthy  of  your  friendship,  but  if  you  will  really 
love  me,  and  forgive  me  for  all  the  mean,  hateful 
things  I've  done,  I  will  try  to  deserve  it  —  I  will 
indeed." 


THE  END 


DOROTHY    BROWN 

By  NINA  RHOADES 

Illustrated  by  Elizabeth  Withington    Large  12mo 
Cloth    $1.50 

THIS  is  considerably  longer  than  the  other 
books  by  this  favorite  writer,  and  with  a 
more  elaborate  plot,  but  it  has  the  same  win- 
some quality  throughout.  It  introduces  the 
heroine  in  New  York  as  a  little  girl  of  eight, 
but  soon  passes  over  six  years  and  finds  her  at 
a  select  family  boarding  school  in  Connecticut. 
An  important  part  of  the  story  also  takes  place 
at  the  Profile  House  in  the  White  Mountains. 
The  charm  of  school-girl  friendship  is  finely 
brought  out,  and  the  kindness  of  heart,  good 
sense  and  good  taste  which  find  constant  ex- 
pression in  the  books  by  Miss  Rhoades  do  not 
lack  for  characters  to  show  these  best  of 
qualities  by  their  lives.     Other  less  admirable 

persons  of  course  appear  to  furnish  the  alluring  mystery,  which  is  not 

all  cleared  up  until  the  very  last. 

"There  will  be  no  better  book  than  this  to  put  into  the  hands  of  a  girl  in 

her  teens  and  none  that  will  be  better  appreciated  by  her."— Kennebec  Journal. 

MARION'S   VACATION 

By  NINA  RHOADES 
Illustrated  by  Bertha  G.  Davidson     12mo    Cloth    $1.25 

THIS  book  is  for  the  older  girls,  Marion 
being  thirteen.  She  has  for  ten  years 
enjoyed  a  luxurious  home  in  New  York  with 
the  kind  lady  who  feels  that  the  time  has  now 
come  for  this  aristocratic  though  lovable  little 
miss  to  know  her  own  nearest  kindred,  who 
are  humble  but  most  excellent  farming  people 
in  a  pretty  Vermont  village.  Thither  Marion 
is  sent  for  a  summer,  which  proves  to  be  a 
most  important  one  to  her  in  all  its  lessons. 

"  More  wholesome  reading  for  half  grown  girls 
it  would  be  hard  to  find;  some  of  the  same  lessons 
that  proved  so  helpful  in  that  classic  of  the  last 
generation  'An  Old  Fashioned  Girl'  are  brought 
home  to  the  youthful  readers  of  this  sweet  and 
sensible  story."— Milwaukee  Free  Press. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  ot 
price  by  the  publishers 

L0THR0P,  LEE  &  SHEPARD  CO.,  Boston 


Only  Doltte 

■I ■———■———» 

By  Nina  Rhoades    Illustrated  by  Bertha  Davidsou 
Square  i2mo     Cloth     $1.00 

THIS  is  a  brightly  written  story  of  a  girl  of 
twelve,  who,  when  the  mystery  of  her  birth 
'  s  solved,  like  Cinderella,  passes  from  drudgery  to 
better  circumstances.  There  is  nothing  strained 
!or  unnatural  at  any  point.  All  descriptions  or 
portrayals  of  character  are  life-like,  and  the 
book  bas  an  indescribable  appealing  quality 
which  wins  sympathy  and  secures  success. 

•'It  is  delightful  reading  at  all  times."—  Cedar 
Rapids  {la.)  Republican, 

*'  It  is  well  written,  the  story  runs  smoothly,  the  idea 
is  good,  and  it  is  handled  with  ability.  —  Chicago 
Journal. 

The  Little  Girl  Next  Door 

By  Nina  Rhoades     Large  i2mo    Cloth    Illustrated 
by  Bertha  Davidson     $1.00 

A  DELIGHTFUL  story  of  true  and  genuine  friendship  between  an 
impulsive  little  girl  in  a  fine  New  York  home  and  a  little  blind  girl 
in  an  apartment  next  door.  The  little  girl's  determination  to  cultivate 
the  acquaintance,  begun  out  of  the  window  during  a  rainy  day,  triumphs 
Dver  the  barriers  of  caste,  and  the  little  blind  girl  proves  to  be  in  every 
tvay  a  worthy  companion.  Later  a  mystery  of  birth  is  cleared  up,  and  the 
little  blind  girl  proves  to  be  of  gentle  birth  as  well  as  of  gentle  manners. 

Winifred's  Neighbors 

By  Nina  Rhoades  Illustrated 
by  Bertha  G.  Davidson  Large 
i2mo     Cloth     $1.00 

LITTLE  Winifred's  efforts  to  find  some 
children  of  whom  she  reads  in  a  book 
lead  to  the  acquaintance  of  a  neighbor 
of  the  same  name,  and  this  acquaintance 
proves  of  the  greatest  importance  to  Winifred's 
own  family.  Through  it  ail  she  is  just  such  a 
little  girl  as  other  girls  ought  to  know,  and 
die 'story  will  hold  the  interest  of  all  ages. 


For  "ale  by  all  booksellers^  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt 
of  price  by  the  publishers 

LOTHR0P,   LEE   &  SHEPARD  CO.,   BOSTON 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORN] 
BERKELEY 


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